A4  "^i^ 


UNiVERSETY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LC'S  ANGELES 


^be  Canterburv?   pocte 

Edited  f,v  Wili.ianl  Sharp. 


MOORE'S     POEM 


HE  POETICAL  WORKS 
OF  THOMAS  MOORE 
[SELECTED].       EDITED, 

WITH    AN     INTRODUCTION,    BY 

JOHN   DORRIAN. 


LONDON 

WALTER    SCOTT,   24  WARWICK    LANE 

AND   NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE 

1888 


s±^ 


r<^.' 

■                          CONTENTS. 

PA 

The  Fire-Worshippers 

Remember  the  Glories  of 

Biien  the  Brave 

Erin !    the   Tear   and  the 

Smile  in  Thine  Eyes 

The  Minstrel  Boy 

GE 
1 

69 

TO 
70 

71 
72 
72 
73 
74 
74 
78 
77 

77 
7S 
80 

82 
82 
83 

84 

PAGE 

The    Song     of     O'Ruark, 

Prince  of  EreSni 85 

Has     Sorrow    thy    young 

days  shaded 86 

While  History's  Muse  the 

Memorial  was  keeping  . .  87 
Oh  !  Where's  the  Slave  ....     SS 

'lis  gone,  and  for  ever fc9 

The  Farewell  to  my  Harp .     GO 

As  Vanquished  Erin 91 

From  this  Hour  the  Pledge 

is  o^iven        .            ,               92 

The      Harp      that     once 
through  Tara's  Halls  . . . 
Oh  !  breathe  not  his  Name 
When  He  who  adores  Thee 
SubUme  was  the  Warning. 

Erin !  Oh  Erin  ! 

Oh  !  Blame  not  the  Bard .. 

Before  the  Battle 

After  the  Battle 

The  Dream  of  those  Days. .    92 
Song  of  Innisf ail 93 

Song  of  the  Battle  Eve ....  94 
Oh,  the  sight  entrancing. .     95 

Fairest !  put  on  awhile 96 

Shall   the   Harp  then   be 

silent? 98 

The  Parallel luO 

Oh    for    the     Swords     of 

former  time 101 

.Aly  Gentle  Harp 102 

Remember  Thee  ! 103 

Forget  not  the  field 103 

The  Irish  Peasant  to  His 
Mistress 

The  Prince's  Day  

When  First  I  met  Thee.. . . 

Avenging  and  Bri  ht  fell 
the  swift  Sword  of  Erin 

The  Dirge 

Let    Erin    remember   the 
Days  of  Old  

^ii•6 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

John  Bull  to  Erin 104 

From  Life  without  freedom  106 
Where  shall  we  bury  our 

shame? 106 

Peace  to  the  Slumberers...  107 

A  Rebel's  Epistle 108 

"  If"  and  "  Perhaps  " Ill 

Oh !   think  not  my  spirits 

are  always  as  light 115 

Come,  send  round  the  Wine  116 

Drink  to  Her 116 

Nay,  tell  me  not,  Dear  —  117 
This  life  is   all  chequer'd 

with  pleasures  and  woes.  118 
One  Bumper  at  parting. ...  119 

The  Legacy 120 

We   may   roam  thro'  this 

World 121 

And  doth  not  a  meeting 

like  this 123 

Quick !    we    have    but   a 

second 124 

Ne'er  ask  the  Hour 125 

Drink  of  this  Cup 126 

Fill  the  Bumper  fair 127 

Wreathe  the  Bowl 128 

Go  where  glory  waits  Thee  133 
Fly  not  yet,  'tis  just  the 

hour 134 

Though  the  last  glimpse  of 

Erin 135 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  en- 
dearing young  charms. . .  136 
While  gazing  on  the  moon's 

light 137 

111  Omens 137 


PAGE 

'Tis  sweet  to  think 138 

Love's  Young  Dream 139 

Lesbia  hath  a  beaming  eye  140 
I  saw  thy  form  in  youthful 

prime , 141 

She  is  far  from  the  land. . .  142 
What  the   Bee  is  to   the 

Floweret 143 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night. .  144 

Oh  !  doubt  me  not  144 

The  young  May  Moon 145 

Oh  1    had  we  some  bright 

little  Isle  of  our  own  ...  146 

You  remember  Ellen 147 

I'd  mourn  the  hopes  that 

leave  me 147 

Come  o'er  the  Sea 148 

The     Time    I've    lost    in 

Wooing 149 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom. .  150 
Oh,  could  we  do  with  this 

World  of  ours 151 

I've  a  Secret  to  tell  Thee. .  152 

The  Mountain  Sprite 152 

They  know  not  my  heart. .  153 

If  thou'lt  be  mine 154 

Echo 155 

To  Ladies' Eyes 155 

They  may  rail  at  this  life..  156 

Love  and  Poverty 157 

Love  analysed 158 

The  Deceived  Lover  159 

The  charms  of  Woman ....  160 
Mary,  I  believed  t'lee  true  160 

Take  back  the  sigh 161 

Nay,  do  not  weep 162 


CONTENTS. 

V 

PAGE 

PAGE 

I  found  her  not 

....  163 

Rich    and  rare    were   the 
Gems  she  wore 

197 

A  Lover's  Retrospect. 

....  163 

Love  and  Lying 

165 

As  a  beam  o'er  the  face  of 

AParting 

....  166 

Waters  

198 

Comparisons 

....  166 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters  198 

Lamia 

....  167 

The  Song  of  Fionnula  

199 

....  168 

On  Music 

It  is  not  the  tear  at  this 

200 

AtXight 

....   173 

The  Day  of  Love 

....  173 

moment  shed 

The  origin  of  the  Harp. . . . 
'Tis  the  last  Rose  of  Sum- 

201 
201 

....  17i 

Black  and  Blue  Eyes . 

....   174 

Love  and  Time 

....   175 

mer  

202 

The  Castilian  Maid . . . 

176 

How  dear  to  me  the  hour.. 

203 

Dear  Fanny 

....  177 

Take  back  the  virgin  page 

203 

Did  not  

....   178 

Farewell  I    but    whenever 

Flow    on,     thou     shining 

you  welcome  the  hour  . . 

204 

River 

....  178 

No,  not  more  welcome  the 

Oh !    no— not    e'en     when 
first  we  loved 179 

fairy  number?; 

■^05 

I  saw  from  the  Beach 

208         1 

Then,  fare  thee  well  . 

....  ISO 

Silence  is  in  our  festal  halls  207        | 

Go,  then— 'tis  vain  . . . 

....  IsO 

Oh !      Arranmore,      loved 

I  can  no  longer  stifle  . 
Row  gently  here 

....   ISl 
....   182 

Arranmore 

208 
209 

There  are  sounds  of  Mirth 

Joys  that  pass  away  . 
Little  Mary's  Eye 

....   182 
183 

The  Night  Dance 

210 
210 

Alone  in  crowds  to  wander 

How  shall  I  woo  ? 

184 

The  Wandering  Bard  

211 

When  on  the  lip  the 

sigh 

Sing,  sweet  Harp  

213 

delays 

....  185 

Though  humble  the  Ban- 

The Siren's  Song 

The  Song  of  Feramorz 

....  186 
....  187 

quet  

014 

Desmond's  Song 

215         1 

The  Enchantress's  Garland  188 

Sing  — sing  — Music      was 

The   Lay   of  the  Flower- 

given 

216 

Spirit  

....   189 

I  wish  I  was  by  that  dim 

The  Georgian's  Song. 
Fly  to  the  Desert 

....  191 
192 

Lake 

217 
218 
219 

Swppt  TnnwfMllATi 

Eveleen's  Bower 

....   194 

'Twas  one  of  those  Dreams 

VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Oh!  Banquet  not 220 

Sail  on,  sail  on 220 

The  Fortune-teller 221 

When  cold  in  the  Earth  ...  222 
Whene'er  I  see  those  smil- 
ing eyes 223 

In  the  Morning  of  Life  . . .  223 
As  slow  our  Ship 224 

0  the  Shamrock  225 

By  that  Lake  whose  gloomy 

shore 227 

To    Leigh    Hunt   and  his 

Brother  228 

Magdalen 229 

Aristippus  to  his  Lamp  .. . .  230 

Aspasia 230 

To  Mrs.  Bl— h— d 231 

When  Time,  who  steals  . . .  233 
Tell  me  where  the  jNlaid  is 

found 235 

Woman  235 

An  Ideal  Land 236 

1  knew  by  the  smoke 237 

George  Washington 237 

A  Canadian  Boat-Song 238 

Impromptu 239 

The  Flying  Dutchman 240 

Love  and  the  Sun-Dial ....  241 
Though  'tis  all  but  a  dream  241 

Oh  !  Days  of  Youth 242 

Come,  chase  that  starting 

tear  away 243 

Peace  be  around  thee 243 

There  comes  a  time 244 

Hark  1  the  Vesper  Bell  is 

stealing 245 


PAGE 

Oft  in  the  stilly  Night 245 

All     that's    bright    must 

fade 246 

Reflections      on      Young 

America 247 

Lord  Byron's  Memoirs 252 

Lines   on    the     Death   of 

Sheridan 254 

Thou  art,  O  God 259 

This  World  is  all  a  fleeting 

show 260 

O   thou    who    dry'st     the 

INIourner's  tear 260 

Sound  the  Loud  Timbrel. .  261 

AVeep  not  for  those 262 

The  Orangemen's  Petition  265 
From  Larry  O'Brannigan . .  267 
The  Rabbinical   origin    of 

Women 271 

Lines  on  Leigh  Hunt 272 

When  Love  is  kind 273 

The  Suri)rise 277 

A  Night  Thought 277 

Science 277 

To 278 

ToCloe 278 

A  Reflection  at  Sea 279 

England 279 

A  leaky  Heart 279 

What's  my  thought  like  . .  280 

Epigrams  280 

On  a  Squinting  Poetess  ...  280 

To 281 

Selections 281 

Corruption  and  Intolerance  285 
Odes  of  Anacreuu  297 


3ntrot)uction. 


T  is  said  that  when  Moore,  shortly 
after  arriving  in  London — being 
then  about  twenty  years  of  age — 
was  introduced  to  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  his  Royal  Highness 
asked  him  if  he  was  the  son  of 
Dr.  ^loore,  the  then  celebrated 
author  of  Zeliico,  "  Nc,  sir,"  was  Moore's  reply, 
"  I  am  the  son  of  a  grocer  at  Dublin."  The  answer 
revealed  a  strong  democratic  spirit  in  the  young 
poet,  which,  however — in  an  equal  degree,  at  any 
rate — did  not  always  afterwards  characterise  him. 
He  was  indeed  the  son  of  a  Dublin  tradesman — 
not  a  grocer,  as  we  understand  the  term,  but  rather 
a  wine  merchant.  The  family,  on  the  father's  side, 
sprang  from  Kerry,  and  the  mother,  who  before  her 
marriage  bore  the  not  very  poetic  name  of 
Anastasia  Codd,  was  a  Wexford  woman.  John 
Moore  carried  on  his  business  after  his  marriage  at 
12  Aungier  Street,  Dublin,  and  here,  on  the  2Sih  of 


INTRODUCTION. 


May  1780,  Thomas  Moore  was  born.  It  has  been 
alleged — though  I  am  not  sure  about  the  statement 
being  entirely  accurate — that  at  the  time  of  Moore's 
birth  the  law  forbad  the  registration  of  the  births 
of  Catholic  children  in  Ireland.  Perhaps  on  that 
account — more  probably  to  gratify  maternal  pride 
— the  future  poet's  mother,  to  commemorate  his 
coming  into  the  world,  got  the  name  and  the  date 
of  his  birth  engraved  on  a  lar^je  crown-piece,  which 
she  preserved. 

Moore's  early  years  in  Dublin  formed  the  period 
of  his  life  most  interesting  from  an  Irish  point  of 
view,  and  as  I  have  endeavoured  to  exhibit  him 
distinctively  and  peculiarly  as  an  Irish  and  national 
poet  in  the  present  selection  of  his  works,  it  is 
important  to  dwell  at  some  length  on  it.  Incom- 
parably the  best  and  most  enduring  of  Moore's 
poetry  is  that  through  which  the  hot  rebellious 
spirit  of  Irish  Nationalism  glows.  We  find  in  the 
circumstances  of  his  youthful  days  the  source  and 
fountain  of  his  patriotic  inspiration. 

One  of  Moore's  schoolmasters  as  a  boy  was  a 
certain  Samuel  Whyte.  This  gentleman,  nearly 
thirty  years  before,  had  numbered  among  his 
scholars  a  lad  who  was  described  as  "an  incorrigible 
dunce,"  but  who  has  since  been  somewhat  known 
to  fame  as  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  Moore, 
however,  was  not  a  dunce.  He  was  a  bright  little 
creature,  and  almost  from  his  babyhood  gave 
promise  of  the  genius  which  afterwards  developed. 

Moore's  parents  were  both  warmly  patriotic. 
"About  .  .  .   1792,"  he  himself  says  in  his  auto- 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 


biography,  "  the  political  aftairs  of  Ireland  began 
to  assume  a  most  animated,  or,  as  to  some  it 
appeared,  stormy  aspect.  The  cause  of  the 
Catholics  was  becoming  every  day  more  national  ; 
and  in  each  new  step  and  vicissitude  of  its  course, 
our  whole  family,  especially  my  dear  mother,  took 
the  warmest  interest.  Besides  her  feelings  as  a 
patriotic  and  warm-hearted  Irishwoman,  the  ambi- 
tious hopes  with  which  she  looked  forward  to  my 
future  career  all  depended,  for  even  the  remotest 
chance  of  their  fulfilment,  upon  the  success  of  the 
measures  of  Catholic  enfranchisement  then  in 
progress.  Some  of  the  most  violent  of  those  who 
early  took  a  part  in  the  proceedings  of  the  United 
Irishmen  were  among  our  most  intimate  friends  ; 
and  I  remember  being  taken  by  my  father  to  a 
public  dinner  in  honour  of  Napper  Tandy,  where 
one  of  the  toasts,  as  well  from  its  poetry  as  its 
politics,  made  an  indelible  impression  upon  my 
mind, — '  May  the  breezes  of  France  blow  our  Irish 
oak  into  verdure.'  I  recollect  my  pride,  too,  at  the 
hero  of  the  night,  Napper  Tandy,  taking  me  for  some 
minutes  on  his  knee."  The  measure  of  Catholic 
Emancipation  passed  by  the  Irish  Parliament  in 
1793  sweeping  away,  among  other  outrageous 
wrongs,  the  edicts  which  excluded  Catholics  from  the 
University  and  the  Bar,  Moore  was  prepared  for 
college  with  a  view  to  his  being  educated  for  the 
law.  Moore's  Latin  tutor  at  this  time  was  an  old 
man  named  Donovan — an  ardent  lover  of  his 
country,  a  rebel  in  his  soul — and  he  taught  the 
young  poet  as  much  treason  as  Latin.     Moore  was 


INTRODUCTION. 


entered  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  1794.  How- 
ever, while  Catholics  were  admitted  as  students 
they  were  excluded  from  all  emoluments,  such  as 
scholarships,  fellowships,  etc.,  no  matter  how  they 
might  distinguish  themselves.  The  disability 
might  have  been  avoided  by  a  student  being 
entered  as  a  Protestant,  but  this  subterfuge 
Moore's  parents  were  too  honest  to  resort  to,  and 
thus  the  future  minstrel,  in  his  University  career, 
was  severely  handicapped.  Anyhow,  he  never 
made  much  of  a  figure  as  a  student,  although  he 
eventually  got  his  B.A. 

Moore,  though,  as  he  says  himself,  "born  a 
rebel,"  had  his  patriotic  feelings  greatly  intensified 
at  the  University.  Here  he  became  associated 
with  Robert  Emmett  and  kindred  spirits,  who 
were  afterwards  the  life  and  soul  of  the  United 
Irishmen,  and  who,  most  of  them,  met  a  tragic  but 
glorious  end  in  desperate  but  futile  risings  against 
English  misgovernment  in  Ireland.  Moore  in  his 
autobiography  gives  an  interesting  account  of 
Emmett,  but  only  two  or  three  of  the  most  notable 
facts  need  be  mentioned.  Emmett,  it  seems,  was  the 
most  powerful  orator  in  the  Historical  Society  of 
the  University,  and  his  speeches  had  such  an 
influence  over  the  members,  that  the  University 
Board  at  last  found  it  necessary  to  resort  to  the 
expedient  of  selecting  an  elderly  and  able  champion 
of  loyalty,  and  sending  him  into  the  society  for  the 
express  purpose  of  answering  Emmett.  It  was  in 
the  course  of  a  reply  to  a  speech  by  this  person — 
whose    name,   by   the    way,   was    Geraghty — that 


INTRODUCTION. 


Emmett  on  one  occasion,  to  the  astonishment  and 
horror  of  his  party,  completely  broke  down  and  had 
to  resume  his  seat  in  the  middle  of  his  speech. 
Moore  himself  never  spoke,  but  he  once  produced 
anonymously  a  burlesque  poem,  entitled  "An  Ode 
upon  Nothing,  with  Notes,  by  Trismegistus  Rusti- 
fustius,"  which  was  read  before  the  society,  and  its 
political  sentiments,  when  the  name  of  the  author 
became  known,  brought  down  on  ]\Ioore's  head  a 
storm  of  wrathful  denunciation  from  the  ultra-loyal 
party.  Moore  tells  us  that  Emmett  was  distin- 
guished at  the  University  as  a  student,  especially 
in  mathematics. 

When  The  Press — a  newspaper  which  was  the 
organ  of  the  United  Irishmen — was  started  by 
Arthur  O'Connor  and  Thomas  Addis  Emmett, 
Moore  contributed  a  letter  to  it  anonymously.  It 
is  a  proof  of  tlie  ardour  and  advanced  character  of 
his  political  views  at  the  time  that  portions  of  this 
very  letter  were  preserved  by  the  Government  as 
showing  the  treasonable  character  of  the  paper, 
and  the  dangerous  tendency  (from  a  "  Castle " 
point  of  view,  of  course)  of  the  political  opinions 
then  prevalent  among  the  students  of  the  Univer- 
sity. After  speaking  of  this  letter,  Moore  makes 
the  following  interesting  reference  to  Emmett  : — 

"  A  few  days  after,  in  the  course  of  one  of  those 
strolls  into  the  country  which  Emmett  and  I  used 
often  to  take  together,  our  conversation  turned  upon 
this  letter,  and  I  gave  him  to  understand  that  it  was 
mine  ;  when  with  that  almost  feminine  gentleness 
of  manner  which  he  possessed,  and  which  is  so 


INTRODUCTION. 


often  found  in  such  determined  spirits,  he  owned  to 
me  that  on  reading  the  letter,  though  pleased  with 
its  contents,  he  could  not  help  regretting  that  the 
public  attention  had  been  thus  drawn  to  the  politics 
of  the  University,  as  it  might  have  the  effect  of 
awakening  the  vigilance  of  the  college  authorities, 
and  frustrate  the  progress  of  the  good  work  (as  we 
both  considered  it)  which  was  going  on  there  so 
quietly.  Even  then,  boyish  as  my  own  mind  was, 
I  could  not  help  being  struck  with  the  manliness 
of  the  view  which  I  saw  he  took  of  what  men 
ought  to  do  in  such  times  and  circumstances — 
namely,  not  to  talk  or  iv7'ite  about  their  intentions, 
but  to  act.  He  had  never  before,  I  think,  in  con- 
versation with  me,  alluded  to  the  existence  of  the 
United  Irish  Societies  in  college,  nor  did  he  now, 
or  at  any  subsequent  time,  make  any  proposition  to 
me  to  join  them,  a  forbearance  which  I  attribute 
a  good  deal  to  his  knowledge  of  the  watchful 
anxiety  about  me  which  prevailed  at  home,  and 
his  foreseeing  the  difficulty  I  should  experience 
— from  being,  as  the  phrase  is,  constantly  'tied 
to  my  mother's  apron  strings' — in  attending  the 
meetings  of  the  society  without  being  discovered." 
"  He  was  altogether,"  continues  Moore,  "  a  noble 
fellow,  and  as  full  of  imagination  and  tenderness  of 
heart  as  of  manly  daring.  He  used  frequently  to 
sit  by  me  at  the  pianoforte,  while  I  played  over  the 
airs  from  Bunting's  Irish  collection  ;  and  I 
remember  one  day  when  we  were  thus  employed, 
his  starting  up  as  if  from  a  reverie  while  I  was 
playing  the  spirited  air,  '  Let  Erin  remember  the 


INTRODUCTION. 


days  of  old,'  and  exclaiming  passionately,  'Oh, 
that  I  were  at  the  head  of  twenty  thousand  men 
marching  to  that  air  ! '  " 

In  view  of  this  tender  and  affectionate  reference 
to  one  of  the  noblest  patriots  that  the  world  has 
ever  produced,  we  can  appreciate  the  vehement 
warmth  of  heart  with  which  Moore  afterwards 
wrote  that  beautiful  song  to  the  memory  of 
Emmett  : — 

"  Oh  !  breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade 
"Where  cold  and  unhonoured  his  relics  are  laid  ; 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night  dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head. 

"  But  the  night  dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it 
weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps  ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls." 

I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  had  Moore  in 
those  early  years  felt  at  liberty  to  give  effect  to  his 
own  desires  he  would  have  gone  as  far  as  Emmett  in 
practical  devotion  to  his  country,  and  he  would 
probably  have  shared  the  fate  that  befell  most  of 
the  United  Irishmen.  But  his  attachment  to  his 
mother,  who,  woman-like,  was  always  jealous  of 
his  personal  safety,  held  him  back.  And  we  cannot 
blame  him  for  this,  for  no  man  ever  had  a  mother 
worthy  of  deeper  love.  And  through  all  vicissi- 
tudes of  his  life — in  the  zenith  of  success  as 
well  as  in  the  gloom  of  misfortune — his  affection 
for  her  never  diminished.  Throughout  her  life, 
when  absent  from  her,  he  wrote  to  her  twice  every 


INTRODUCTION. 


week,  and  I  have  never  read  anything  sweeter  or 
more  touching  than  these  letters.  But  strong  as 
was  his  mother's  objection  to  his  exposing  himself 
to  any  personal  danger  in  connection  wath  the 
United  Irishmen,  she  was  too  genuine  an  Irish- 
woman to  allow  him  to  act  meanly  towards  them, 
even  when  vital  interests  were  at  stake.  When 
Moore  was  called  before  the  Inquisition  held  at 
Trinity  College,  to  inquire  into  the  political  aims 
and  actions  of  Emmett  and  the  other  United  Irish- 
men, he,  with  his  mother's  and  his  father's  approval, 
distinctly  refused  to  utter  one  word  which  would 
injure  any  of  his  companions,  even  though  he  had 
to  face  the  (to  him)  terrible  alternative  of  being 
expelled  from  the  college.  However,  as  it  hap- 
pened, he  passed  through  the  ordeal  without  hurt. 

There  is  nothing  more  that  need  be  noted  in 
regard  to  Moore's  career  in  Dublin,  and  little  with 
respect  to  his  life  afterwards.  He  left  his  native 
city  and  came  to  London  when  he  was  nine- 
teen, and  with  the  publication  of  the  "  Odes  of 
Anacreon  "  commenced  that  career  of  prosperous 
authorship  which  marked  the  remainder  of  his 
days.  He  died  at  Sloperton  Cottage,  near 
Devizes,  on  the  26th  of  February  1852.  For 
several  years  before  his  death  he  was  the 
victim  of  a  mental  collapse.  His  memory  deserted 
him,  and  his  once  brilliant  and  rich  intellect 
turned  to  that  of  a  child.  This  it  seems  was  in 
great  part  due  to  the  deaths  of  his  two  sons  and  of 
his  sister  Ellen. 

What  is  Moore's  present  position  in  the  scale  of 


INTRODUCTION, 


English  poets  ?  Judged  by  the  circulation  of  his 
works  he  must  be  reckoned  among  the  half-dozen 
writers  of  verse  who  enjoy  the  chief  hold  on 
popular  favour.  Judged  by  the  "  taste "  of  the 
day,  he  is  under  a  cloud.  In  fact,  there  are  critics 
who  deny  him  the  attribute  of  genius.  However, 
there  are  few  things  more  fickle  and  fluctuating 
than  taste.  Of  course,  I  am  not  speaking  of  the 
taste  exhibited  in  the  readiness  with  which  a  poet's 
works  are  bought  and  read.  That  is  mere 
popularity^the  uncultured  bias  of  the  mob,  which, 
it  is  well  known,  has  no  taste.  Taste  in  literature, 
and  more  especially  in  poetry,  is  a  thing  of  which 
in  every  generation  a  select  and  eclectic  few 
have  the  monopoly.  But  it  is  absurd  to  condemn 
!Moore  because  he  is  unlike  Tennyson  or  Browning. 
Where  radical  differences  of  metrical  methods  as 
well  as  of  quality  of  genius  exist,  it  is  worse  than 
useless  to  institute  comparisons  on  any  common 
basis  of  criticism.  To  say  that  this  or  that  writer 
is  lesser  or  greater  because  he  excels  or  falls  short 
of  another,  is  to  altogether  mistake  the  function  of 
the  literary  critic.  A  poet  who  has  any  claims  on 
immortality  must  not  be  judged  comparatively. 
A  writer  whose  merits  are  simply  those  of  imitation 
or  similitude  can  have  no  abiding  place  in  litera- 
ture. It  is  only  the  unique  that  lives.  Posterity 
will  perceive  only  the  master-type  ;  his  imitators 
are  literary  ephemera.  Judge  IMoore  by  this 
standard.  It  will  be  found  that  he  moves  in  an 
orbit  of  his  own.  He  is  a  "  bright  particular  star  " 
without  a  rival.     It  has  been  said  that  he  possess^'s 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 


fancy,  but  no  imagination.  It  is  a  supercilious 
untruth,  built  on  the  fact  that  in  his  poetry  fancy 
predominates  and  superabounds.  But  Moore  has 
enough  imagination  to  make  the  reputation  of  an 
ordinary  poet.  It  cannot  be  denied  that,  compared 
with  the  greatest  of  our  writers,  he  is  deficient  in- 
the  imaginative  quality.  But  even  if  it  were  true 
that  he  possessed  only  fancy,  where  else  do  you 
find  a  fancy  so  felicitous,  so  original,  so  spon- 
taneous, so  luxuriant,  so  coruscant .?  Here,  at  all 
events,  he  "  holds  the  field."  On  tlie  general 
average  of  Moore's  poetry  I  claim  for  him  one  of 
the  highest  places  in  our  poetic  literature,  and  such 
is  the  quality  of  his  muse  that  it  will  be  popular 
when  poets  more  profoundly  gifted  are  disregarded 
by  all  but  the  bookworm. 

Whatever  doubts  may  exist  as  to  Moore's  relative 
position  in  English  literature,  there  can  be  none 
regarding  his  pre-eminence  as  an  Irish  bard.  Of 
all  the  poets  that  have  lived,  few  in  an  equal  degree, 
none  in  a  greater,  typified  their  nationality.  The 
race  to  which  Moore  belongs  has  very  decided  and 
well-defined  idiosyncracies,  and  he  embodies  them 
all.  The  Irish  Celt  is  not  profoundly  speculative 
nor  morbidly  imaginative.  He  is  emotional,  and 
as  diversely  as  he  is  intensely  so.  In  his  sym- 
pathies he  is  more  catholic  than  constant.  His 
heart  is  stronger  than  his  judgment.  He  hates 
reservations  and  disdains  middle  courses.  When 
he  takes  up  an  opinion,  or  a  man,  or  a  cause,  he 
goes  for  it,  or  him,  blindly,  unreservedly,  and 
absolutely.     Like  all  who  indulge  in  this  luxury,  he 


INTRODUCTION. 


has  sometimes  to  submit  to  the  humiliation  of 
retracing  his  steps.  What  he  worshipped  yester- 
day he  may  destroy  to-day  ;  not  so  much  because 
he  has  changed  as  because  he  has  unduly 
confided  in,  or  expected  what  was  impossible 
from,  the  object  of  his  worship.  He  is  ardent 
in  all  things.  He  will  give  as  much  gratitude 
for  a  kindly  word  as  a  more  circumspect  man 
would  return  for  a  substantial  gift.  He  seldom 
inquires  into  motives.  He  is  content  to  judge  men 
by  their  acts — and  sometimes  by  their  professions 
— alone.  He  wears  his  own  heart  on  his  sleeve, 
and  is  unsuspicious  of  guile  in  others.  As  a  lover 
he  is  versatile,  but  as  a  husband,  devoted,  loyal, 
and  affectionate,  without  being  uxorious.  He  is 
the  beau-ideal  of  a  soldier  ;  as  has  been  shown 
repeatedly  on  the  battle-fields  of  Europe  and 
America.  His  laugh  may  be  heard  ringing  as 
merrily  amid  the  roar  of  conflict  as  amid  the 
jollity  of  the  festive  board.  He  is  hopeful  and 
sanguine  to  a  fault.  Nothing  depresses  him  long. 
His  periods  of  gloom,  like  clouds  on  an  April  day, 
are  quickly  chased  away  by  the  irrestrainable  sun- 
shine of  his  nature.  He  may  be  easily  conquered 
by  kindness  and  confidence ;  against  tyrannical 
force  he  is  as  adamant.  Persecution  simply  acts  as 
fuel  and  cement  to  his  opinions.  The  ceaseless 
and  unscrupulous  attempts  of  England  to  uproot 
his  religion  and  nullify  his  liberties  have  made  him 
the  most  fervent  Catholic  and  most  passionate 
Nationalist  in  Europe.  Mr.  Joseph  Cowen,  who 
^has  made  a  deeper  and  more  statesmanlike  study 

b 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  Irish  history  and  character  than  any  other  living 
Englishman,  has  described  the  nature  of  the 
national  sentiment  in  words  whose  truth  and 
eloquence  have  never  been  equalled.  "  Behind 
Emancipation,  Tithe  Reform,  Disestablishment,  and 
Land  Acts,  and  deeper  than  them  all,"  he  said  at 
Manchester  in  June  1886,  "there  is  the  intensified 
yearning  of  the  Irish  Celt  for  a  national  existence  ; 
for  a  free  growth  for  his  peculiarities  of  character  ; 
for  the  right  to  determine  the  methods  and  apply 
the  power  of  his  own  life.  This  sentiment  furrows 
and  permeates  Irish  soil.  It  embraces  and  directs 
all  branches  of  activity.  Agitations  apostolate  and 
evangelise  it.  United  Irishmen,  Young  Irelanders, 
and  Fenians  ;  Repealers,  Home  Rulers,  and 
Nationalists — what  are  they  all  but  the  collective 
intuition  of  a  people  under  emotion — the  effort  of  a 
nation  to  live  the  life  fermenting  within  it  ?  From 
Wolfe  Tone  to  Smith  O'Brien,  and  from  Smith 
O'Brien  to  Michael  Davitt  ;  from  Grattan  to 
O'Connell,  and  from  O'Connell  to  Mr.  Parnell — 
these  active  forces  have  been  grouped  and 
organised.  Generation  transmits  to  generation  the 
common  inspiration.  Successive  bands  of  patriotic 
Irishmen  have  consecrated  themselves  to  its  realisa- 
tion. Dozens  have  died  for  it,  scores  have  been 
transported,  hundreds  gone  to  prison,  and  thousands 
to  exile.  But  neither  terror,  nor  proscription,  nor 
martyrdom  has  been  able  to  weaken  the  deliberate 
and  inexorable  determination — often  baffled  but 
never  conquered — of  Ireland  to  recover  her  right 
to    distinctive    existence,    and    to    assure    a    due 


INTRODUCTION. 


recognition  of  her  part  and  mission  in  the  destinies 
of  the  Empire."  Nowhere  so  beautifully  and  so 
intensely  as  in  Moore  do  we  find  this  national 
feeling  uttered.  Thomas  Davis,  the  laureate  of  the 
Young  Irelanders,  has  more  force,  but  nothing  like 
the  same  felicity  either  of  sentiment  or  expression. 
It  is  singular  that  although  rvloore  spent  nearly  the 
whole  of  his  life  in  England  and  in  English 
aristocratic  society,  the  spirit  of  the  Irish  rebel 
never  left  him.  In  fact,  the  last  of  his  Irish 
Melodies — which  were  among  the  latest  of  his 
writings — breathe  a  sterner  and  more  uncom- 
promising spirit  than  those  written  in  earlier  years. 
It  is  still  more  singular  that  by  his  songs  he  made 
the  sentiments  of  the  Irish  rebel  popular  in  English 
drawing-rooms,  where,  presented  in  any  other  guise, 
they  would  have  been  scouted  and  condemned. 
His  treason  was  trilled  at  every  fashionable 
assembly.  Is  it  extravagant  to  think  that  by 
these  beautiful  and  touching  lyrics  many  a  heart 
was  inspired  with  kindness  towards  Erin,  even  in 
the  stronghold  of  her  enemies  .f*  In  that  exquisite 
song,  "Oh,  Blame  not  the  Bard,"  which  Moore 
seems  to  have  written  in  a  fit  of  dissatisfaction  with 
his  own  position,  he  describes  his  mission  : — 

"  But  though  glory  be  gone,  and  though  hope  fade  away, 

Thy  name,  loved  Erin,  shall  live  in  his  songs  ; 
Not  even  in  the  hour  when  his  heart  is  most  gay 

Will  he  lose  the  remembrance  of  thee  and  thy  wrongs. 
The  stranger  shall  hear  thy  lament  on  his  plains  ; 

The  sigh  of  thy  harp  shall  be  sent  o'er  the  deep, 
Till  thy  masters  themselves,  as  they  rivet  thy  chains, 

Shall  pause  at  the  song  of  their  captive,  and  weep  !  " 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 


Wherever  Moore  writes  of  patriotic  effort,  or  the 
tyranny  of  usurpation,  Ireland  is  in  his  thoughts. 
"The  Fire  Worshippers"  in  "  Lalla  Rookh  "  is  an 
Irish  poem  in  Eastern  raiment.  Change  Iran  to 
Erin,  and  Hafed  to  Emmett,  and  you  have  a  picture 
of  Moore's  native  country  and  her  ideal  patriot  as 
the  poet  conceived  them. 

But  Moore's  claims  as  an  Irish  national  poet  rest 
less  upon  his  own  sentiments  and  inclinations  than 
upon  the  influence  of  his  writings.  His  poetry  has 
supplied  his  countrymen  with  a  text  and  an  inspira- 
tion in  all  their  recent  struggles  for  national  liberty. 
No  one  more  frequently  or  effectively  than  an  Irish 
orator  embellishes  his  speeches  with  a  telling  verse 
from  the  poets,  and  no  Irish  writer  is  so  fertile  as 
Moore  in  quotations  calculated  to  stir  and  interest 
an  assembly.  I  have  seen  his  poems,  when 
delivered  with  power  and  feeling,  alternately  melt 
an  Irish  audience  to  tears  and  rouse  them  to  a 
frenzy  of  patriotic  enthusiasm.  The  poetry  of 
Moore  has  made  as  many  rebels  against  the 
English  Government  as  any  literature  that  has 
moulded  Irish  opinion. 

Moore  is  a  national  poet,  apart  from  his  patriotic 
writings.  Unlike  any  other  bard  that  Ireland 
has  produced,  he  sums  up  and  typifies  in  his 
writings  all  the  distinctive  qualities  of  the  race,  the 
regrettable  as  well  as  the  admirable.  His  amorous, 
convivial,  and  humorous  poetry  reveals  those 
sides  of  the  Irish  character  as  vividly  and 
accurately  as  his  patriotic  poetry  depicts  the 
national  sentiment. 


INTRODUCTION. 


There  is  something  grimly  humorous  in  i!.e 
reflection  that  if  there  is  a  great  poet  who  by  the 
whole  bent  and  quality  of  his  genius  belongs 
exclusively  to  Ireland,  it  is  to  England  more  than 
to  Ireland  that  his  existence  is  due.  If  Moore  had 
not  migrated  to  London  the  probabilities  are  that 
he  would  have  been  martyred  like  Emmett,  or 
starved  like  oMangan,  or,  like  Davis,  have  died 
young  under  a  load  of  worries  and  disappointments 
after  revealing  only  one  side  of  his  genius.  Since 
the  Norman  invasion  the  state  of  Ireland  has  been 
repellant  to  the  development  of  a  great  national 
poet.  Poetry  may  find  its  grandest  inspiration  in 
war,  and  in  the  struggles  of  a  race  for  freedom,  but 
it  is  only  amid  peaceful  surroundings,  and  in  a 
society  which  has  taste  to  enjoy  and  the  means  to 
encourage  the  Arts — which  are  the  children  of 
Peace — that  it  can  find  adequate  expression. 
Moore  obtained  in  England  quietude  and  leisure, 
applause  and  substantial  encouragement,  which  he 
could  never  have  hoped  for  in  Ireland.  Moreover, 
his  Irish  extraction  and  sympathies  never  did  him 
hurt  as  a  poet.  As  the  "  Bard  of  Erin '"  he  was 
chiefly  known  and  most  admired.  He  was 
personally  by  far  the  most  popular,  and  for  his 
writings  the  best  paid,  poet  of  his  time.  In  some 
happier  day  to  come  these  facts  in  the  minds  of 
Irishmen  may  operate  to  the  advantage  of  England  ; 
at  present  they  operate  to  the  disadvantage  of 
Moore.  Ireland  will  yet,  no  doubt,  bring  forth  a 
great  poet  who  will  be  her  protege  as  well  as  her 
product.     The  people  of  the  country  are  naturally 


INTRODUCTION. 


poetic  and  artistic.  Prior  to  the  Danish  incursions 
Ireland  was — to  use  a  phrase  of  Mr.  Cowen's — 
the  "  Christian  Greece."  Alfred  the  Great  was 
educated  there.  The  Venerable  Bede  bears 
testimony  to  the  scholastic  eminence  of  the  isle. 
But  the  Danes  came,  and  after  them  the  Normans, 
and  rapine,  war,  poverty,  and  national  degrada- 
tion drove  learning  from  her  shrines.  Ireland's 
political  struggles,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  are 
nearly  over.  With  contentment,  and  tranquillity, 
and  prosperity  restored,  she  may  see  a  revival  of 
her  halcyon  days,  when  the  air  rang  with  melody 
and  monuments  of  art  beautified  the  land.  But 
however  brilliant  may  be  the  future  of  Ireland,  it 
may  safely  be  predicted  that  no  poet  will  ever 
arise  who  will  eclipse  Moore  in  the  affections  of  the 
people. 


JOHN  DORRIAN. 


%n 


^be  Jfirc^MorelMppcra 


flDoore*6  poems. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 
[Fro/ri  "  Lalla  Rookk."'] 

'Tis  moonlight  over  Oman's  sea  ;* 

Her  banks  of  pearl  and  palmy  isles 
Bask  in  the  night-beam  beauteously, 

And  her  blue  waters  sleep  in  smiles. 
'Tis  moonlight  in  Harmozia's  walls, 
And  through  her  Emir's  porphyry  halls, 
Where,  some  hours  since,  was  heard  the  swell 
Of  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  zel, 
Bidding  the  bright  eyed  sun  farewell ; — 
The  peaceful  sun,  whom  better  suits 

The  music  of  the  bulbul's  nest, 
Or  the  light  touch  of  lovers'  lutes. 

To  sing  him  to  his  golden  rest  ! 
All  hush'd — there's  not  a  breeze  in  motion  ; 
The  shore  is  silent  as  the  ocean. 
If  zephyrs  come,  so  light  they  come, 

Nor  leaf  is  stirr'd  nor  wave  is  driven  : — 
The  wind-tower  on  the  Emir's  dome 

Can  hardly  win  a  breath  from  heaven. 

*  The  Persian  Gulf,  between  Persia  and  Aiabia. 

350 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Even  he,  that  tyrant  Arab,  sleeps 

Calm,  while  a  nation  round  him  weeps  ; 

While  curses  load  the  air  he  breathes, 

And  falchions  from  unnumber'd  sheaths 

Are  starting  to  avenge  the  shame 

His  race  hath  brought  on  Iran's*  name. 

Hard,  heartless  Chief,  unmoved  alike 

'Mid  eyes  that  weep  and  swords  that  strike  j — 

One  of  that  saintly,  murderous  brood, 

To  carnage  and  the  Koran  given, 
Who  think  through  unbelievers'  blood 

Lies  their  directest  path  to  heaven. 
One  who  will  pause  and  kneel  unshod 

In  the  warm  blood  his  hand  hath  pour'd. 
To  mutter  o'er  some  text  of  God 

Engraven  on  his  reeking  sword  ; — 
Nay,  who  can  coolly  note  the  line, 
The  letter  of  those  words  divine. 
To  which  his  blade,  with  searching  art, 
Had  sunk  into  his  victim's  heart  ! 

Just  Alia  !   what  must  be  Thy  look. 

When  such  a  wretch  before  Thee  stands 
Unblushing,  with  Thy  sacred  book, — 

Turning  the  leaves  with  blood-stain'd  hands, 
And  wresting  from  its  page  sublime 
His  creed  of  lust  and  hate  and  crime  ? 
Even  as  those  bees  of  Trebizond, — 

Which  from  the  sunniest  flowers  that  glad 
With  their  pure  smile  the  gardens  round, 

Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad  ! 

Never  did  fierce  Arabia  send 

A  satrap  forth  more  direly  great  ; 

Iran  is  the  true  general  name  for  the  empire  of  Persia. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Never  was  Iran  doom'd  to  bend 

Beneath  a  yoke  of  deadlier  weight. 
Her  throne  had  fallen — her  pride  was  crush'd — 
Her  sons  were  willing  slaves,  nor  blush'd 
In  their  own  land, — no  more  their  ow-n, — 
To  crouch  beneath  a  stranger's  throne. 
Her  towers,  where  Mithra  once  had  burn'd, 
To  Moslem  shrines — O  shame  ! — were  turn'd, 
Where  slaves,  converted  by  the  sword, 
Their  mean,  apostate  worship  pour'd, 
And  cursed  the  faith  their  sires  adored. 
Yet  has  she  hearts,  'mid  all  this  ill, 
O'er  all  this  wreck  high,  buoyant  still 
With  hope  and  vengeance ;  hearts  that  yet, 

Like  gems,  in  darkness  issuing  rays 
They've  treasured  from  the  sun  that's  set. 

Beam  all  the  light  of  long-lost  days  ! 
And  swords  she  hath,  nor  weak  nor  slow 

To  second  all  such  hearts  can  dare  ; 
As  he  shall  know,  well,  dearly  know. 

Who  sleeps  in  moonlight  luxury  there, 
Tranquil  as  if  his  spirit  lay 
Becalm'd  in  heaven's  approving  ray  ! 
Sleep  on — for  purer  eyes  than  thine 
Those  waves  are  hush'd,  those  planets  shine. 
Sleep  on,  and  be  thy  rest  iinmoved 

By  the  white  moonbeam's  dazzling  power  ; — 
None  but  the  loving  and  the  loved 

Should  be  awake  at  this  sw^eet  hour. 

And  see — where,  high  above  those  rocks 
That  o'er  the  deep  their  shadows  fling, 

Yon  turret  stands  ;  where  ebon  locks, 
As  glossy  as  a  heron's  wing 
Upon  the  turban  of  a  king, 

Hang  from  the  lattice,  long  and  wild, — 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

'Tis  she,  that  Emir's  blooming  child, 
All  truth  and  tenderness  and  grace, 
Though  born  of  such  ungentle  race  ; — 
An  image  of  youth's  radiant  fountain 
Springing  in  a  desolate  mountain  ! 

Oh,  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  Beauty,  curtain'd  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light  ! 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, — 

The  flower  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams  doth  not  lie 

Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity  ; 
vSo,  Hinda,  have  thy  face  and  mind, 
Like  holy  mysteries,  lain  enshrined. 
And  oh,  what  transport  for  a  lover 

To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  o'er  I — 
Like  those  who  all  at  once  discover 

In  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore, 

Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 
And  sleep  and  wake  in  scented  airs 
No  lip  had  ever  breathed  but  theirs  ! 

Beautiful  are  the  maids  that  glide 

On  summer-eves  through  Yemen's  dales, 
And  bright  the  glancing  looks  they  hide 

Behind  their  litters'  roseate  veils  ; — 
And  brides,  as  delicate  and  fair 
As  the  white  jasmine  flowers  they  wear, 
Hath  Yemen  in  her  blissful  clime, 

AVho,  luU'd  in  cool  kiosk  or  bower, 
Before  their  mirrors  count  the  time, 

And  grow  still  lovelier  every  hour. 
But  never  yet  hath  bride  or  maid 

In  Araby's  gay  Harams  smiled, 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  5 

Whose  boasted  brightness  would  not  fade 
Before  Al  Hassan's  blooming  child. 

Light  as  the  angel  shapes  that  bless 
An  infant's  dream,  yet  not  the  less 
Rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness  : — 
With  eyes  so  pure,  that  from  their  ray 
Dark  Vice  would  turn  abash'd  away, 
Blinded  like  serpents,  when  they  gaze 
Upon  the  emerald's  virgin  blaze  ! 
Yet,  fill'd  with  all  youth's  sweet  desires, 
Mingling  the  meek  and  vestal  fires 
Of  other  worlds  with  all  the  bliss, 
The  fond,  weak  tenderness  of  this  ! 
A  soul,  too,  more  than  half  divine, 

Where,  through  some  shades  of  earthly  feeling, 
Religion's  soften'd  glories  shine. 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 
Shedding  a  glow  of  such  mild  hue. 
So  warm,  and  yet  so  shado\\y  too, 
As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
More  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere  ! 

Such  is  the  maid,  who,  at  this  hour. 

Hath  risen  from  her  restless  sleep, 
And  sits  alone  in  that  high  bower. 

Watching  the  still  and  shining  deep. 
Ah  !  'twas  not  thus, — with  tearful  eyes 

And  beating  heart,— she  used  to  gaze 
On  the  magnificent  earth  and  skies. 

In  her  own  land,  in  happier  days. 
Why  looks  she  now  so  anxious  down 
Among  those  rocks,  whose  rugged  frown 

Blackens  the  mirror  of  the  deep  ? 
\Miom  waits  she  all  this  lonely  night  ? 


THE  FIRE  WORSHIPPERS. 

Too  rough  the  rocks,  too  bold  the  steep, 
For  man  to  scale  that  turret's  height ! 

So  deem'd  at  least  her  thoughtful  sire, 

When  high,  to  catch  the  cool  night-air. 
After  the  day-beam's  withering  fire, 

He  built  her  bower  of  freshness  there, 
And  had  it  deck'd  with  costliest  skill. 

And  fondly  thought  it  safe  as  fair ; — 
Think,  reverend  dreamer  !  think  so  still, 

Nor  wake  to  learn  what  love  can  dare — 

Love,  all-defying  Love,  who  sees 
No  charm  in  trophies  won  v.'ith  ease  ; — 
Whose  rarest,  dearest  fruits  of  bliss 
Are  pluck'd  on  danger's  precipice  ! 
Bolder  than  they,  who  dare  not  dive 

For  pearls,  but  when  the  sea's  at  rest, 
Love,  in  the  tempest  most  alive. 

Hath  ever  held  that  pearl  the  best 
He  finds  beneath  the  stormiest  water  ! 
Yes — Araby's  unrivall'd  daughter, 
Though  high  that  tower,  that  rock-way  rude, 

There's  one  who,  but  to  kiss  thy  cheek, 
Would  climb  th'  untrodden  solitude 

Of  Ararat's  tremendous  peak. 
And  think  its  steeps,  though  dark  and  dread, 
Heaven's  pathways,  if  to  thee  they  led  ! 
Even  now  thou  seest  the  flashing  spray. 
That  lights  his  oar's  impatient  way  ; — 
Even  now  thou  hearest  the  sudden  shock 
Of  his  swift  bark  against  the  rock. 
And  stretchest  down  thy  arms  of  snow, 
As  if  to  lift  him  from  below  ! 
Like  her  to  whom,  at  dead  of  night. 
The  bridegroom,  M'ith  his  locks  of  light, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIt FERS. 

Came,  in  the  flush  of  love  and  pride, 

And  scaled  the  terrace  of  his  bride  ; — 

When,  as  she  saw  him  rashly  spring, 

And  mid-way  up  in  danger  cling, 

She  flung  him  down  her  long  black  hair, 

Exclaiming,  breathless,  "There,  love,  there  !' 

And  scarce  did  manlier  nerve  uphold 

The  hero  Zal  in  that  fond  hour,* 
Than  wings  the  youth  who  fleet  and  bold 

Now  climbs  the  rocks  to  Hinda's  bower. 
See — light  as  up  their  granite  steeps 

The  rock -goats  of  Arabia  clamber, 
Fearless  from  crag  to  crag  he  leaps, 

And  now  is  at  the  maiden's  chamber. 


She  loves — but  knows  not  whom  she  loves, 

Nor  what  his  race,  nor  whence  he  came  ; — 
Like  one  who  meets,  in  Indian  groves. 

Some  beauteous  bird  without  a  name, 
Brought  by  the  last  ambrosial  breeze, 
From  isles  in  th'  undiscover'd  seas, 
To  show  his  plumage  for  a  day 
To  wondering  eyes,  and  wing  away  ! 
Will  he  thus  fly — her  nameless  lover  ? 

Alia  forbid  !  'twas  by  a  moon 
As  fair  as  this,  while  singing  over 

Some  ditty  to  her  soft  kanoon. 
Alone,  at  this  same  witching  hour, 

She  first  beheld  his  radiant  eyes 
Gleam  through  the  lattice  of  the  bower, 

^\^lere  nightly  now  they  mix  their  sighs  ; 
And  thought  some  spirit  of  the  air 
(For  what  could  waft  a  mortal  there  ?) 

*  Zal,  a  Persian  hero,  used  to  ascend  by  night  to  his  luLstiess'i 
chamber,  being  assisted  in  his  ascent  by  her  long  hair. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Was  pausing  on  his  moonlight  way 

To  listen  to  her  lonely  lay  ! 

This  fancy  ne'er  hath  left  her  mind  ; 

And — though,  when  terror's  swoon  had  past, 
She  saw  a  youth  of  mortal  kind 

Before  her  in  obeisance  cast, — 
Yet  often  since,  when  he  has  spoken 
Strange,  awful  words, — and  gleams  have  broken 
From  his  dark  eyes,  too  bright  to  hear, 

Oh  !  she  hath  fear'd  her  soul  was  given 
To  some  unhallow'd  child  of  air, 

Some  erring  spirit,  cast  from  heaven, 
Like  those  angelic  youths  of  old, 
Who  burn'd  for  maids  of  mortal  mould, 
Bewilder'd  left  the  glorious  skies, 
And  lost  their  heaven  for  woman's  eyes  ! 
Fond  girl  !  nor  fiend  nor  angel  he. 
Who  woos  thy  young  simplicity  ; 
But  one  of  earth's  impassion'd  sons, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire 
As  the  best  heart  whose  current  runs 

Full  of  the  Day-God's  living  fire  ! 

But  quench'd  to-night  that  ardour  seems, 

And  pale  his  cheek,  and  sunk  his  brow  ; — 
Never  before,  but  in  her  dreams, 

Had  she  beheld  him  pale  as  now  : 
And  those  were  dreams  of  troubled  sleep, 
From  which  'twas  joy  to  wake  and  weep  ; 
Visions  that  will  not  be  forgot, 

But  sadden  every  waking  scene, 
Like  warning  ghosts  that  leave  the  spot 

All  wither'd  where  they  once  have  been  1 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 
Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid, — 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood, 

Looking  upon  that  moonHght  flood — 

"  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 

To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle  ! 

Oft,  in  my  fancy's  wanderings, 

I've  wish'd  that  little  isle  had  wings. 

And  we,  within  its  fairy  bowers, 

Were  wafted  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  pulse  should  beat  but  ours, 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone  ! 
Far  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold — 

Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  us,  to  behold 

A  Paradise  so  pure  and  lonely  ! 
Would  this  be  world  enough  for  thee  ? "' — 
Playful  she  lurn'd,  that  he  might  see 

The  passing  smile  her  cheek  put  on  ; 
But  when  she  mark'd  how  mournfully 

His  eyes  met  hers,  that  smile  was  gone  ; 
And,  bursting  into  heart-felt  tears, 
"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "  my  hourly  fears, 
My  dreams  have  boded  all  too  right — 
We  part — for  ever  part — to-night  ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last — 
'Twas  bright,  'twas  heavenly,  but  'tis  past  ! 
Oh,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower. 

But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! 
Now  too — the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine — 


10  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, 

O  misery  !  must  I  lose  that  too  ? 
Yet  go — on  peril's  brink  we  meet  ; — 

Those  frightful  rocks — that  treacherous  sea — 
No,  never  come  again — though  sweet, 

Though  heaven,  it  may  be  death  to  thee. 
Farewell — and  blessings  on  thy  way. 

Where'er  thou  go'st,  beloved  stranger  ! 
Better  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 
And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 

Than  have  thee  near  me,  and  in  danger  !  " 

"  Danger  ! — oh,  tempt  me  not  to  boast — " 
The  youth  exclaim'd — "  thou  little  know'st 
What  he  can  brave,  who,  born  and  nurst 
In  danger's  paths,  has  dared  her  worst  ! 
Upon  whose  ear  the  signal-word 

Of  strife  and  death  is  hourly  breaking; 
Who  sleeps  with  head  upon  the  sword 

His  fever'd  hand  must  grasp  in  waking  1 
Danger  !  "— 

"  Say  on — thou  fear'st  not,  then, 
And  we  may  meet — oft  meet  again  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  look  not  so, — beneath  the  skies 
I  now  fear  nothing  but  those  eyes. 
If  aught  on  earth  could  charm  or  force 
My  spirit  from  its  destined  course, — 
If  aught  could  make  this  soul  forget 
The  bond  to  which  its  seal  is  set, 
'Twould  be  those  eyes  ; — they,  only  they, 
Could  melt  that  sacred  seal  away  ! 
But  no — 'tis  fix'd — my  awful  doom 
Is  fix'd — on  this  side  of  the  tomb 
We  meet  no  more— why,  why  did  Heaven 
Mingle  two  souls  that  earth  has  riven, 
Has  rent  asunder  wide  as  ours? 
Oh,  Arab  maid  !  as  soon  the  powers 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  1 1 

Of  light  and  darkness  may  combine^ 
As  I  be  link'd  with  thee  or  thine  ! 

Thy  Father " 

*'  Holy  Alia  save 

His  grey  head  from  that  lightning  glance  ! 
Thou  knowst  him  not — he  loves  the  brave ; 

Nor  lives  there  under  heaven's  expanse 
One  who  would  prize,  would  worship  thee, 
And  thy  bold  spirit,  more  than  he. 
Oft  when,  in  childhood,  I  have  play'd 

With  the  bright  falchion  by  his  side, 
I've  heard  him  swear  his  lisping  maid 

In  time  should  be  a  warrior's  bride. 
And  still,  whene'er,  at  Haram  hours, 
I  take  him  cool  sherbets  and  flowers, 
He  tells  me,  when  in  playful  mood, 

A  hero  shall  my  bridegroom  be, 
Since  maids  are  best  in  battle  woo'd, 

And  won  with  shouts  of  victory  ! 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me — thou  alone 
Art  form'd  to  make  both  hearts  thy  own. 
Go — ^join  his  sacred  ranks — thou  know'st 

Th'  unholy  strife  these  Persians  wage  : — 
Good  Heaven,  that  frown  ! — even  now  thou  glow'st 

With  more  than  mortal  warrior's  rage. 
Haste  to  the  camp  by  morning's  light, 
And,  when  that  sword  is  raised  in  fight. 
Oh,  still  remember  love  and  I 
Beneath  its  shadow  trembling  lie  ! 
One  victory  o'er  those  Slaves  of  Fire, 
Those  impious  Ghebers,  whom  my  sire 

Abhors " 

"  Hold,  hold— thy  words  are  death  !  " 

The  stranger  cried,  as  wild  he  flung 
His  mantle  back,  and  shew'd  beneath 

The  Gheber  belt  that  round  him  clung. — 


12  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, 

"  Here,  maiden,  look — weep — blush  to  see 
All  that  thy  sire  abhors  in  me  ! 
Yes — /  am  of  that  impious  race, 

Those  Slaves  of  Fire  who,  morn  and  even, 
Hail  their  Creator's  dwelling-place 

Among  the  living  lights  of  heaven  ! 
Yes — /  am  of  that  outcast  few. 
To  Iran  and  to  vengeance  true, 
Who  curse  the  hour  your  Arabs  came 
To  desolate  our  shrines  of  flame, 
And  swear,  before  God's  burning  eye, 
To  break  our  country's  chains,  or  die  ! 
Thy  bigot  sire — nay,  tremble  not — 

He  who  gave  birth  to  those  dear  eyes 
With  me  is  sacred  as  the  spot 

From  which  our  fires  of  worship  rise  ! 
But  know — 'twas  he  I  sought  that  night, 

When,  from  my  watch-boat  on  the  sea, 
I  caught  this  turret's  glimmering  light, 

And  up  the  rude  rocks  desperately 
Rush'd  to  my  prey — thou  know'st  the  rest — 
I  climb'd  the  gory  vulture's  nest, 
And  found  a  trembling  dove  within  ; — 
Thine,  thine  the  victory — thine  the  sin — 
If  Love  has  made  one  thought  his  own. 
That  Vengeance  claims  first — last — alone  I 
Oh  !  had  we  never,  never  met. 
Or  could  this  heart  even  now  forget 
How  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  have  been. 
Had  fate  not  frown'd  so  dark  between  ! 
Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid. 

In  neighbouring  valleys  had  we  dwelt, 
Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  play'd, 

At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt, — 
Then,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties. 
In  which  the  charm  of  country  lies, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  13 

Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun, 

Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  were  one; — 

^Vhile  in  thy  lute's  awakening  sigh 

I  heard  the  voice  of  days  gone  by, 

And  saw  in  every  smile  of  thine 

Returning  hours  of  glory  shine  ! — 

While  the  wrong'd  spirit  of  our  land  [thee — 

Liv^ed,  look'd,  and  spoke  her  wrongs   through 
God  !  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand  ? 

Its  ver)'  flash  were  victory  ! 
But  now — estranged,  divorced  for  ever, 
Far  as  the  grasp  of  Fate  can  sever  ; 
Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove, — 

Faith,  friends,  and  countr)',  sunder'd  wide  ; — 
And  then,  then  only  true  to  love, 

When  false  to  all  that's  dear  beside  ! 
Thy  father  Iran's  deadliest  foe — ■ 
Thyself,  perhaps,  even  now — but  no — 
Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet  ! 

No — sacred  to  thy  soul  will  be 
The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 

All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee  ! 
\\Tien  other  eyes  shall  see,  unmoved, 

Her  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 
Thou'lt  think  how  well  one  Gheber  loved, 

And  for  his  sake  thou'lt  weep  for  all ! 

But  look " 

With  sudden  start  he  turn'd 

And  pointed  to  the  distant  wave. 
Where  lights,  like  charnel  meteors,  burn'd 

Bluely,  as  o'er  some  seaman's  grave  ; 
And  fier}'  darts,  at  intervals, 

Flew  up  all  sparkling  from  the  main, 
As  if  each  star  that  nightly  falls. 

Were  shooting  back  to  heaven  again. 
'■'  My  signal  lights  I — I  must  away, 


14  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Both,  both  are  ruin'd,  if  I  stay. 
Farewell — sweet  life  !  thou  clingst  in  vain- 
Now — vengeance  ! — I  am  thine  again." 
Fiercely  he  broke  away,  nor  stopp'd. 
Nor  look'd — but  from  the  lattice  dropp'd 
Down  mid  the  pointed  crags  beneath, 
As  if  he  fled  from  love  to  death, 
While  pale  and  mute  young  Hinda  stood, 
Nor  moved,  till  in  the  silent  flood 
A  momentary  plunge  below 
Startled  her  from  her  trance  of  woe ; 
Shrieking  she  to  the  lattice  flew, 

"  I  come — I  come — if  in  that  tide 
Thou  sleepst  to-night — Fll  sleep  there  too, 

In  death's  cold  wedlock  by  thy  side. 
Oh,  I  would  ask  no  happier  bed 

Than  the  chill  wave  my  love  lies  under  ;- 
Sweeter  to  rest  together  dead, 

Far  sweeter,  than  to  live  asunder  !  " 
But  no — their  hour  is  not  yet  come — 

Again  she  sees  his  pinnace  fly, 
Wafting  him  fleetly  to  his  home, 

Where'er  that  ill-starr'd  home  may  lie  ; 
And  calm  and  smooth  it  seem'd  to  win 

Its  moonlight  way  before  the  wind, 
As  if  it  bore  all  peace  within. 

Nor  left  one  breaking  heart  behind  ! 


The  morn  has  risen  clear  and  calm, 
And  o'er  the  Green  Sea*  palely  shines. 

Revealing  Bahrein's  groves  of  palm. 
And  lighting  Kishma's  amber  vines. 

Fresh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 

While  breezes  from  the  Indian  Sea 

*  The  Persian  Gulf.— 5'ir  W.  Jones. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  1 5 

Blow  round  Selama's  sainted  cape, 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath, — 
Whose  \vaves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape, 

And  cocoa-nut  and  flowery  wreath. 
Which  pious  seamen,  as  they  pass'd. 
Have  toward  that  holy  headland  cast — 
Oblations  to  the  genii  there 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair  ! 
The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight 
From  the  high  trees,  where  all  the  night 

She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen  ; 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  star 

^Vhere  thickets  of  pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  daw^n, — bespangled  o'er 

With  dew,  whose  night-drops  would  not  stain 
The  best  and  brightest  scimitar 
That  ever  youthful  sultan  wore 

On  the  first  morning  of  his  reign  ! 
And  see — the  sun  himself  1 — on  wings 
Of  glory  up  the  east  he  springs. 
Angel  of  light  I  who  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  began  their  march  sublime, 
Has  first  of  all  the  starry  choir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire  I 

Where  are  the  days,  thou  wondrous  sphere, 
When  Iran,  like  a  sun-flower,  turn'd 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burn'd  ? — 

When,  from  the  banks  of  Bendemeer 
To  the  nut-groves  of  Samarcand, 
Thy  temples  flamed  o'er  all  the  land  ? 
Where  are  they  ?  ask  the  shades  of  thera 

Who,  on  Cadessia's*  bloody  plains, 
Saw  fierce  invaders  pluck  the  gem 

*  The  place  where  the  Persians  -were  finally  defeated  by  the 
Arabs,  and  their  ancient  monarchy  destroyed. 


1 6  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

From  Iran's  broken  diadem, 

And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains  :  — 
Ask  the  poor  exile,  cast  alone 
On  foreign  shores,  unloved,  unknown^ 
Beyond  the  Caspian's  Iron  Gates,* 

Or  on  the  snowy  Mossian  Mountains, 
Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 

Her  jasmine  bowers  and  sunny  fountains  ! 
Yet  happier  so  than  if  he  trod 
His  own  beloved  but  blighted  sod, 
Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod  ! — 
Oh  !  he  would  rather  houseless  roam. 

Where  Freedom  and  his  God  may  lead. 
Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  home 

That  crouches  to  the  conqueror's  creed  ! 
Is  Iran's  pride  then  gone  for  ever, 

Quench'd  with  the  flame  in  Mithra's  caves  ? 
No — she  has  sons  that  never — never 

Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves. 

While  heaven  has  light  or  earth  has  graves. 
Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long, 
But  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong  ; 
And  hearts  where,  slow  but  deep,  the  seeds 
Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds. 
Till,  in  some  treacherous  hour  of  calm, 
They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm, 
W^hose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 
That  shakes  the  pigmy  forests  round  ! 

Yes,  Emir  !  he  who  scaled  that  tower — 

And,  had  he  reached  thy  slumbering  breast, 

Had  taught  thee,  in  a  Gheber's  power 
How  safe  even  tyrant  heads  may  resi— 

Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he, 

*  Derbend.    The  Turks  call  the  city  the  Iron  Gate, 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  17 

Who  loathe  thy  haughty  race  and  thee  ; 

\\Tio,  though  they  know  the  strife  is  vain, 

WTio,  though  they  know  the  riven  chain 

Snaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 

Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart, 

Yet  dare  the  issue, — blest  to  be 

Even  for  one  bleeding  moment  free, 

And  die  in  pangs  of  liberty  ! 

Thou  know'st  them  well — 'tis  some  moons  since 

Thy  turban'd  troops  and  blood-red  flags. 
Thou  satrap  of  a  bigot  prince  ! 

Have  swarm'd  among  these  Green  Sea  crags  ; 
Yet  here,  even  here,  a  sacred  band, 
Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land 
Thou,  Arab,  darest  to  call  thy  own, 
Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown  ; 
Here — ere  the  winds  half-wing'd  thee  o'er. 
Rebellion  braved  thee  from  the  shore. 


Rebellion  !  foul,  dishonouring  word. 

Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  has  stain'd 

The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 

Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gain'd. 

How  many  a  spirit,  born  to  bless. 

Has  sunk  beneath  that  withering  name, 

Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's  success 
Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame  ! 

As  exhalations,  when  they  burst 

From  the  warm  earth,  if  chill'd  at  first, 

If  check'd  in  soaring  from  the  plain, 

Darken  to  fogs,  and  sink  again  ; 

But  if  they  once  triumphant  spread 

Their  wings  above  the  mountain-head, 

Become  enthroned  in  upper  air. 

And  turn  to  sun -bright  glories  there  ! 

351 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

And  who  is  he  that  wields  the  might 

Of  freedom  on  the  Green  Sea  brink, 
Before  whose  sabre's  dazzling  light 

The  eyes  of  Yemen's  warriors  wink  ? 
Who  comes  embower'd  in  the  spears 
Of  Kerman's  hardy  mountaineers  ? 
Those  mountaineers  that  truest,  last, 

Cling  to  their  country's  ancient  rites, 
As  if  that  God,  M^hose  eyelids  cast 

Their  closing  gleam  on  Iran's  heights, 
Among  her  snowy  mountains  threw 
The  last  light  of  His  worship  too  ! 

'Tis  Hafed — name  of  fear,  whose  sound 

Chills  like  the  muttering  of  a  charm  : — 
Shout  but  that  awful  name  around. 

And  palsy  shakes  the  manliest  arm. 
'Tis  Hafed,  most  accurst  and  dire 
(So  rank'd  by  Moslem  hate  and  ire) 
Of  all  the  rebel  Sons  of  Fire  ! 
Of  whose  malign,  tremendous  power 
The  Arabs,  at  their  mid -watch  hour, 
Such  tales  of  fearful  wonder  tell, 
That  each  affrighted  sentinel 
Pulls  down  his  cowl  upon  his  eyes, 
Lest  Hafed  in  the  midst  should  rise  ! 
A  man,  they  say,  of  monstrous  birth, 
A  mingled  race  of  flame  and  earth. 
Sprung  from  those  old,  enchanted  kings, 

Who  in  their  fair)'  helms,  of  yore, 
A  feather  from  the  mystic  wings 

Of  the  Simoorgh  resistless  wore  ; 
And  gifted  by  the  fiends  of  fire, 
Who  groan'd  to  see  their  shrines  expire, 
With  charms  that,  all  in  vain  withstood, 
Would  drown  the  Koran's  light  in  blood  4 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  19 

Such  were  the  tales  that  won  belief, 

And  such  the  colouring  fancy  gave 
To  a  young,  warm  and  dauntless  Chief, — 

One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave, 
Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  adored, 

For  happy  homes  and  altars  free, — 
His  only  talisman  the  sword, 

His  only  spell-word,  Liberty  ! 
One  of  that  ancient  hero  line. 
Along  whose  glorious  current  shine 
Names  that  have  sanctified  their  blood ; 
As  Lebanon's  small  mountain-flood 
Is  rendered  holy  by  the  ranks 
Of  sainted  cedars  on  its  banks  ! 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny  : — 
'Twas  not  for  him,  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past, 
Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead, 
Though  framed  for  Iran's  happiest  years. 
Was  bom  among  her  chains  and  tears  ! — 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  swell  the  K^rowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinkijag  bow'd 
Before  the  Moslem  as  he  pass'd, 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast — 
No— far  he  fled — indignant  fled 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame ; 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul  like  drops  of  flame  ; 
And  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  smile,  so  welcomed  he 
The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 

For  vengeance  and  for  liberty  ! 


20  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

But  vain  was  valour — vain  the  flower 
Of  Kerman,  in  that  deathful  hour, 
Against  Al  Hassan's  whelming  power, 
In  vain  they  met  him,  helm  to  helm, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  that  realm 
He  came  in  bigot  pomp  to  sway, 
And  with  their  corpses  block'd  his  way — 
In  vain — for  every  lance  they  raised 
Thousands  around  the  conqueror  blazed  ; 
For  every  arm  that  lined  their  shore, 
Myriads  of  slaves  were  wafted  o'er, — 
A  bloody,  bold,  and  countless  crowd. 
Before  whose  swarm  as  fast  they  bow'd 
As  dates  beneath  the  locust-cloud  ! 

There  stood — but  one  short  league  away 
From  old  Harmozia's  sultry  bay — 
A  rocky  mountain,  o'er  the  Sea 
Of  Oman  beetling  awfully, 
A  last  and  solitary  link 

Of  those  stupendous  chains  that  reach 
From  the  broad  Caspian's  reedy  brink 

Down  winding  to  the  Green  Sea  beach. 
Around  its  base  the  bare  rocks  stood. 
Like  naked  giants  in  the  flood, 

As  if  to  guard  the  gulf  across  ; 
While,  on  its  peak,  that  braved  the  sky, 
A  ruin'd  temple  tower'd  so  high 

That  oft  the  sleeping  albatross 
Struck  the  wild  ruins  with  her  wing. 
And  from  her  cloud -rock'd  slumbering 
Started — to  find  man's  dwelling  there 
In  her  own  silent  fields  of  air  ! 
Beneath,  terrific  caverns  gave 
Dark  welcome  to  each  stormy  wave 
That  dash'd,  like  midnight  revellers,  in  ; — 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  21 

And  such  the  strange,  mysterious  din 
At  times  throughout  those  caverns  roll'd, — 
And  such  the  fearful  wonders  told 
Of  restless  sprites  imprison'd  there, 
That  bold  were  Moslem  who  would  dare, 
At  twilight  hour,  to  steer  his  skifif 
Beneath  the  Gheber's  lonely  cliff. 


On  the  land  side,  those  towers  sublime, 
That  seem'd  above  the  grasp  of  Time, 
Were  sever' d  from  the  haunts  of  men 
By  a  wide,  deep,  and  wizard  glen, 
So  fathomless,  so  full  of  gloom. 

No  eye  could  pierce  the  void  between  ; 
It  seem'd  a  place  where  gholes  might  come 
With  their  foul  banquets  from  the  tomb. 

And  in  its  caverns  feed  unseen. 
Like  distant  thunder,  from  below, 

The  sound  of  many  torrents  came  ; 
Too  deep  for  eye  or  ear  to  know 
If  'twere  the  sea's  imprison'd  flow, 

Or  floods  of  ever-restless  flame. 
For  each  ravine,  each  rocky  spire 
Of  that  vast  mountain  stood  on  fire  ; 
And  though  for  ever  past  the  days 
When  God  was  worshipp'd  in  the  blaze 
That  from  its  lofty  altar  shone, — 
Though  fled  the  priests,  the  votaries  gone — 
Still  did  the  mighty  flame  burn  on 
Through  chance  and  change,  through  good  and  ill, 
Like  its  own  God's  eternal  will. 
Deep,  constant,  bright,  unquenchable  ! 

Thither  the  vanquish'd  Hafed  led 
His  little  army's  last  remains  ; — 


22  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.       . 

''  Welcome,  terrific  glen  !  "  he  said, 

"  Thy  gloom,  that  Eblis'  self  might  dread, 

Is  heaven  to  him  who  flies  from  chains  : 
O'er  a  dark  narrow  bridge-way,  known 
To  him  and  to  his  chiefs  alone. 
They  cross'd  the  chasm  and  gain'd  the  towers 
''  This  home,"  he  cried,  "  at  least  is  ours — 
Here  we  may  bleed,  unmock'd  by  hymns 

Of  Moslem  triumph  o'er  our  head  ; 
Here  we  may  fall,  nor  leave  our  limbs 

To  quiver  to  the  Moslem's  tread. 
Stretch'd  on  this  rock,  while  vultures'  beaks 
Are  wetted  on  our  yet  warm  cheeks, 
Here, — happy  that  no  tyrant's  eye 
Gloats  on  our  torments — we  may  die  !  " 
'Twas  night  when  to  those  towers  they  came, 
And  gloomily  the  fitful  flame. 
That  from  the  ruin'd  altar  broke, 
Glared  on  his  features  as  he  spoke  : — 
*•  'Tis  o'er — what  men  could  do,  we've  done — 
If  Iran  will  look  tamely  on, 
And  see  her  priests,  her  warriors  driven 

Before  a  sensual  bigot's  nod, 
A  wretch  who  takes  his  lusts  to  heaven, 

And  makes  a  pander  of  his  God  ! 
If  her  proud  sons,  her  high-born  souls. 

Men  in  whose  veins— oh,  last  disgrace  ! 
'  The  blood  of  Zal  and  Rustam*  rolls,— 
"  If  they  will  court  this  upstart  race, 
And  turn  from  Mithra's  ancient  ray. 
To  kneel  at  shrines  of  yesterday  ; 
If  they  %vill  crouch  to  Iran's  foes, 

Why,  let  them — till  the  land's  despair 
Cries  out  to  heaven,  and  bondage  grows 

*  Ancient  heroes  of  Persia. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  23 

Too  vile  for  even  the  vile  to  bear  ! 
Till  shame  at  last,  long  hidden,  burns 
Their  inmost  core,  and  conscience  turns 
Each  coward  tear  the  slave  lets  fall 
Back  on  his  heart  in  drops  of  gall  ! 
But  he7'e,  at  least,  are  arms  unchain'd, 
And  souls  that  thraldom  never  stain'd  ; — 

This  spot,  at  least,  no  foot  of  slave 
Or  satrap  ever  yet  profaned  ; 

And  though  but  few — though  fast  the  wave 
Of  life  is  ebbing  from  our  veins, 
Enough  for  vengeance  still  remains. 
As  panthers,  after  set  of  sun. 
Rush  from  the  roots  of  Lebanon 
Across  the  dark  sea-robber's  way, 
We'll  bound  upon  our  startled  prey  ; — 
And  when  some  hearts  that  proudest  swell 
Have  felt  our  falchion's  last  farewell ; 
When  Hope's  expiring  throb  is  o'er, 
And  even  Despair  can  prompt  no  more. 
This  spot  shall  be  the  sacred  grave 
Of  the  last  few  who,  vainly  brave. 
Die  for  the  land  they  cannot  save  !  " 

His  chiefs  stood  round — each  shining  blade 
Upon  the  broken  altar  laid — 
And  though  so  wild  and  desolate 
Those  courts,  where  once  the  mighty  sate  ! 
Nor  longer  on  those  mouldering  towers 
Was  seen  the  feast  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
With  which  of  old  the  Magi  fed 
The  wandering  spirits  of  their  dead  ; 
Though  neither  priest  nor  rites  were  there, 

Nor  charm'd  leaf  of  pure  pomegranate  ; 
Nor  hymn,  nor  censer's  fragrant  air, 

Nor  symbol  of  their  worshipp'd  planet ; 


24  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Yet  the  same  God  that  heard  their  sires 
Heard  them^  while  on  that  altar's  fires 
They  swore  the  latest,  holiest  deed 
Of  the  few  hearts  still  left  to  bleed, 
Should  be,  in  Iran's  injured  name, 
To  die  upon  that  mount  of  flame — 
The  last  of  all  her  patriot  line, 
Before  her  last  untrampled  shrine  ! 
Brave,  suffering  souls  !  they  little  knew 
How  many  a  tear  their  injuries  drew 
From  one  meek  maid,  one  gentle  foe. 
Whom  Love  first  touch'd  with  others'  woe— 
Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
Slept  like  a  lake,  till  Love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide, 
And  spread  its  trembling  circles  wide. 
Once,  Emir  !  thy  unheeding  child, 
Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloom'd  and  smiled — 
Tranquil  as  on  some  battle-plain 

The  Persian  lily  shines  and  towers, 
Before  the  combat's  reddening  stain 

Hath  fallen  upon  her  golden  flowers. 
Light-hearted  maid,  unawed,  unmoved, 
While  Heaven  but  spared  the  sire  she  loved, 
Once  at  thy  evening  tales  of  blood 
Unlistening  and  aloof  she  stood — 
And  oft,  when  thou  hast  paced  along 

Thy  Haram  halls  with  furious  heat, 
Hast  thou  not  cursed  her  cheerful  song, 

That  came  across  thee,  calm  and  sweet, 
Like  lutes  of  angels,  touch'd  so  near 
Hell's  confines,  that  the  damn'd  can  hear  ! 
Far  other  feelings  love  has  brought — 

Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  sadness, 
She  now  has  but  the  one  dear  thought. 

And  thinks  that  o'er,  almost  to  madness  ! 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  25 

Oft  doth  her  sinking  heart  recall 

His  words — '*  For  my  sake  weep  for  all ;" 

And  bitterly,  as  day  on  day 

Of  rebel  carnage  fast  succeeds, 
She  weeps  a  lover  snatch'd  away 

In  every  Gheber  wretch  that  bleeds. 
Theres  not  a  sabre  meets  her  eye, 

But  with  his  life-blood  seems  to  swim  ; 
There's  not  an  arrow  wings  the  sky 

But  fancy  turns  its  point  to  him. 
No  more  she  brings  with  footstep  light 
Al  Hassan's  falchion  for  the  fight ; 
And — had  he  look'd  with  clearer  sight,  . 
Had  not  the  mists,  that  ever  rise 
From  a  foul  spirit,  dimm'd  his  eyes — 
He  w^ould  have  mark'd  her  shuddering  frame, 
\Mien  from  the  field  of  blood  he  came. 
The  faltering  speech — the  look  estranged — 
Voice,  step,  and  life,  and  beauty  changed — 
He  would  have  mark'd  all  this  and  known 
Such  change  is  wrought  by  love  alone  ! 

Ah  !  not  the  love  that  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast  : 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosperous  love 
That,  pledged  on  earth  and  seal'd  above, 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendship's  smile  and  home's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 

Into  one  knot  of  happiness  ! 
No,  Hind  a,  no — thy  fatal  flame 
Is  nursed  in  silence,  sorrow,  shame. 

A  passion,  without  hope  or  pleasure. 
In  thy  soul's  darkness  buried  deep, 

It  lies,  hke  some  ill-gotten  treasure, — 
Some  idol,  without  shrine  cr  name, 


26  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS, 

O'er  which  its  pale-eyed  votaries  keep 
Unholy  watch,  while  others  sleep  ! 

Seven  nights  have  darken'd  Oman's  Sea, 

Since  last,  beneath  the  moonlight  ray, 
She  saw  his  light  oar  rapidly 

Hurry  her  Gheber's  bark  away, — 
And  still  she  goes,  at  midnight  hour, 
To  weep  alone  in  that  high  bower, 
And  watch,  and  look  along  the  deep 
For  him  whose  smiles  first  made  her  weep  | 
But  watching,  weeping,  all  was  vain, 
She  never  saw  that  bark  again. 
The  owlet's  solitary  cry, 
The  night-hawk,  flitting  darkly  by, 

And  oft  the  hateful  carrion-bird, 
Heavily  flapping  his  clogg'd  wing. 
Which  reek'd  with  that  day's  banqueting — 

Was  all  she  saw,  was  all  she  heard. 

'Tis  the  eighth  morn — Al  Hassan's  brow 

Is  brighten'd  with  unusual  joy — 
What  mighty  mischief  glads  him -now, 

Who  never  smiles  but  to  destroy  ? 
The  sparkle  upon  Herkend's  Sea, 
When  tost  at  midnight  furiously, 
Tells  not  of  wreck  and  ruin  nigh, 
More  surely  than  that  smiling  eye  ! 
"  Up,  daughter,  up — the  Kerna's  breath 
Has  blown  a  blast  would  waken  Death, 
And  yet  thou  sleep'st — up,  child,  and  see 
This  blessed  day  for  Heaven  and  me, 
A  day  more  rich  in  Pagan  blood 
Than  ever  flash' d  o'er  Oman's  flood. 
Before  another  dawn  shall  shine. 
His  head— heart— limbs— will  all  be  mine  > 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS,  27 

This  very  night  his  blood  shall  steep 

These  hands  all  over  ere  I  sleep  !  " — 

^^  His  blood  !"  she  faintly  scream'd — ^her  mind 

Still  singling  one  from  all  mankind. 

*'  Yes,  spite  of  his  ravines  and  towers, 

Hafed,  my  child,  this  night  is  ours. 

Thanks  to  all-conquering  treachery, 

Without  whose  aid  the  links  accurst, 
That  bind  these  impious  slaves,  would  be 

Too  strong  for  Alla's  self  to  burst ! 
That  rebel  fiend,  whose  blade  has  spread 
!My  path  with  piles  of  Moslem  dead, 
Whose  baffling  spells  had  almost  driven 
Back  from  their  course  the  swords  of  Heaven, 
This  night,  with  all  his  band,  shall  know 
How  deep  an  Arab's  steel  can  go, 
When  God  and  "vengeance  speed  the  blow. 
And — Prophet  ! — by  that  holy  wreath 
Thou  worest  on  Ohod's  field  of  death, 
I  swear,  for  every  sob  that  parts 
In  anguish  from  these  heathen  hearts, 
A  gem  from  Persia's  plunder'd  mines 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  shrine  of  shrines. 
But,  ha  ! — she  sinks — that  look  so  wild — 
Those  livid  lips — my  child,  my  child. 
This  life  of  blood  befits  not  thee, 
And  thou  must  back  to  Araby. 

Ne'er  had  I  risk'd  thy  timid  sex    . 
In  scenes  that  man  himself  might  dread, 
Had  I  not  hoped  our  every  tread 

Would  be  on  prostrate  Persian  necks — • 
Curst  race,  they  offer  swords  instead  ! 
But  cheer  thee,  maid, — the  wind  that  now 
Is  blowing  o'er  thy  feverish  brow 
To-day  shall  waft  thee  from  the  shore  ; 
And,  ere  a  drop  of  this  night's  gore 


28  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, 

Hath  time  to  chill  in  yonder  towers, 
Thou'lt  see  thy  own  sweet  Arab  bowers  !  " 

His  bloody  boast  was  all  too  true — 

There  lurk'd  one  wretch  among  the  few 

Whom  Hafed's  eagle  eye  could  count 

Around  him  on  that  fiery  mount — 

One  miscreant,  who  for  gold  betray'd 

The  pathway  through  the  valley's  shade" 

To  those  high  towers  where  Freedom  stood 

In  her  last  hold  of  flame  and  blood. 

Left  on  the  field  last  dreadful  night, 

When  sallying  from  their  sacred  height, 

The  Ghebers  fought  hope's  farewell  fight, 

He  lay — but  died  not  with  the  brave  : 

That  sun,  which  should  have  gilt  his  grave, 

Saw  him  a  traitor  and  a  slave  ; — 

And,  while  the  few,  who  thence  return'd 

To  their  high  rocky  fortress,  mourn'd 

For  him  among  the  matchless  dead 

They  left  behind  on  glory's  bed. 

He  lived,  and,  in  the  face  of  morn, 

Laugh'd  them  and  Faith  and  Heaven  to  scorn  ! 

Oh  for  a  tongue  to  curse  the  slave, 

WTiose  treason,  like  a  deadly  blight, 
Comes  o'er  the  counsels  of  the  brave. 

And  blasts  them  in  their  hour  of  might  ! 
May  life's  unblessed  cup  for  him 
Be  drugg'd  with  treacheries  to  the  brim, — 
With  hopes  that  but  allure  to  fly, 

With  joys  that  vanish  while  he  sips. 
Like  Dead-Sea  fruits  that  tempt  the  eye, 

But  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips  ! 
His  country's  curse,  his  children's  shame, 
Outcast  of  virtue,  peace,  and  fame, 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  29 

May  he,  at  last,  with  lips  of  flame. 
On  the  parch'd  desert  thirsting  die, — 
While  lakes  that  shone  in  mockery  nigh 
Are  fading  oft,  untouch'd,  unta^ted, 
Like  the  once  glorious  hopes  he  blasted  ! 
And,  when  from  earth  his  spirit  flies, 

Just  Prophet,  let  the  damn'd  one  dwell 
Full  in  the  sight  of  Paradise, 

Beholding  heaven,  and  feeling  hell ! 

The  day  is  lowering—  stilly  black 
Sleeps  the  grim  wave,  wiiile  heaven's  rack, 
Dispersed  and  wild,  'twixt  earth  and  sky 
Hangs  like  a  shatter'd  canopy  ! 
There's  not  a  cloud  in  that  blue  plain 

But  tells  of  storm  to  come  or  past  ; — 
Here,  flying  loosely  as  the  mane 

Of  a  young  war-horse  in  the  blast ; 
There  roll'd  in  masses  dark  and  swelling, 
As  proud  to  be  the  thunder's  dwelling  ! 
While  some,  already  burst  and  riven. 
Seem  melting  down  the  verge  of  heaven  ; 
As  though  the  infant  storm  had  rent 

The  mighty  womb  that  gave  him  birth. 
And,  having^  swept  the  firmament, 

Was  now  in  fierce  career  for  earth. 
On  earth  'twas  yet  all  calm  around, 
A  pulseless  silence,  dread,  profound, 
More  awful  than  the  tenipest's  sound. 
The  diver  steer'd  for  Ormus'  bowers, 
And  moor'd  his -skift"  till  calmer  hours  ; 
The  sea  birds,  with  portentous  screech, 
Flew  fast  to  land  ; — upon  the  beach 
The  pilot  oft  had  paused,  with  glance 
Turn'd  upward  to  that  wild  expanse  : 
And  all  was  boding,  drear,  and  dark 


30  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

As  her  own  soul;,  when  Hinda's  bark 
Went  slowly  from  the  Persian  shore — 
No  music,  timed  her  parting  oar, 
Nor  friends  upon  the  lessening  strand 
Linger'd  to  wave  the  unseen  hand. 
Or  speak  the  farewell,  heard  no  more  ; 
But  lone,  unheeded,  from  the  bay 
The  vessel  takes  its  mournful  w^ay, 
Like  some  ill-destined  bark  that  steers 
In  silence  through  the  Gate  of  Tears.* 

And  where  was  stern  Al  Hassan  then  ? 
Could  not  that  saintly  scourge  of  men 
From  bloodshed  and  devotion  spare 
One  minute  for  a  farewell  there  ? 
No — close  within,  in  changeful  fits 
Of  cursing  and  of  prayer,  he  sits 
In  savage  loneliness  to  brood 
Upon  the  coming  night  of  blood 

With  that  keen,  second-scent  of  death, 
By  which  the  vulture  snuffs  his  food 

In  the  still  warm  and  living  breath  ! 
While  o'er  the  wave  his  weeping  daughter 
Is  wafted  from  these  scenes  of  slaughter, 
As  a  young  bird  of  Babylon, 
Let  loose  to  tell  of  victory  won, 
Flies  home,  with  wing,  ah  !  not  unstain'd 
By  the  red  hands  that  held  her  chain'd. 
And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 
Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks? 

*  The  Gate  of  Tears,  the  straits  or  passage  into  the  Red  Sea, 
called  Eabehnandeb.  It  received  this  name  from  the  old 
Arabians,  on  account  of  the  danger  of  the  navigation  and  the 
number  of  shipwrecks  by  which  it  was  distinguished  ;  which 
induced  them  to  consider  as  dead  all  who  had  the  boldness  to 
hazard  the  passage  through  it  into  the  Ethiopian  ocean. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  -■ 

The  flowers  she  nursed — the  \ven-kno\%Ti  groves, 
Where  oft  in  dreams  her  spirit  roves — 
Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 
Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells  ; 
Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold, 

And  the  gay,  gleaming  fishes  count, 
She  left,  ali  filleted  with  gold, 

Shooting  around  their  jasper  fount. 
Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see, 

And  once  again,  at  evening  hour, 
To  tell  her  ruby  rosary 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bower — 
Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  now, 
Call  up  no  sunshine  on  her  brow  ? 
No — silent,  from  her  train  apart, — 
As  if  even  now  she  felt  at  heart 
The  chill  of  her  approaching  doom, — 
She  sits,  all  lovely  in  her  gloom 
As  a  pale  angel  of  the  grave  ; 
And  o'er  the  wide,  tempestuous  wave, 
Looks,  with  a  shudder,  to  those  towers, 
^^^lere,  in  a  few  short  awful  hours. 
Blood,  blood,  in  steaming  tides  shall  run, 
Foul  incense  for  to-morrow's  sun  ! 
"  ^^^lere  art  thou,  glorious  stranger  !  thou, 
So  loved,  so  lost,  where  art  thou  now  ? 
Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er 
Th'  unhallow'd  name  thou'rt  doom'd  to  bear, 
Still  glorious — still  to  this  fond  heart 
Dear  as  its  blood,  whate'er  thou  art  ! 
Yes — Alia,  dreadful  Alia  !  yes — 
If  there  be  wrong,  be  crime  in  this. 
Let  the  black  waves,  that  round  us  roll, 
Whelm  me  this  instant,  ere  my  soul, 
Forgetting  faith, — home, — father, — all, 
Before  its  earthly  idol  fall,  , 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Nor  worship  even  thyself  above  him,    ' 
For  oh  !  so  wildly  do  I  love  him, 
Thy  Paradise  itself  were  dim 
And  joyless,  if  not  shared  with  him  !  " 


Her  hands  were  clasp'd — her  eyes  upturn'd, 

Dropping  their  tears  like  moonlight  rain  ; 
And  though  her  lip,  fond  raver,  burn'd 

With  words  of  passion,  bold,  profane. 
Yet  was  there  light  around  her  brow, 

A  holiness  in  those  dark  eyes. 
Which  shew'd — though  wandering  earthward  now, 

Her  spirit's  home  was  in  the  skies. 
Yes, — for  a  spirit  pure  as  hers 
Is  always  pure,  even  while  it  errs  ; 
As  sunshine,  broken  in  the  rill, 
Though  turn'd  astray,  is  sunshine  still  ! 

So  wholly  had  her  mind  forgot 

All  thoughts  but  one,  she  heeded  not 

The  rising  storm — the  wave  that  cast 

A  moment's  midnight,  as  it  pass'd — 

Nor  heard  the  frequent  shout,  the  tread 

Of  gathering  tumult  o'er  her  head — - 

Clash'd  swords,  and  tongues  that  seem'd  to  vie 

With  the  rude  riot  of  the  sky. 

But  hark  ! — that  war-whoop  on  the  deck, 

That  crash,  as  if  each  engine  there. 
Masts,  sails,  and  all  were  gone  to  wreck, 

Mid  yells  and  stampings  of  despair  ! 
Merciful  Heaven  !  what  ca7i  it  be  ? 
'Tis  not  the  storm,  though  fearfully 
The  ship  has  shudder'd  as  she  rode 
O'er  mountain  waves,  "  Forgive  me,  God  ! 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Forgive  me" — shriek'd  the  maid,  and  knelt, 

Trembling  all  over,  for  she  felt 

As  if  her  judgment-hour  was  near  ; 

WTiile  crouching  round,  half  dead  with  fear. 

Her  handmaids  clung,  nor  breathed,  nor  stirr'd 

\\lien,  hark  ! — a  second  crash — a  third — 

And  now,  as  if  a  bolt  of  thunder 

Had  riven  the  labouring  planks  asunder, 

The  deck  falls  in — what  horrors  then  ! 

Blood,  waves,  and  tackle,  swords  and  men 

Come  mix'd  together  through  the  chasm  ; — 

Some  wretches  in  their  dying  spasm 

Still  fighting  on — and  some  that  call 

"For  God  and  Iran  !  "  as  they  fall. 


Whose  was  the  hand  that  turn'd  away 
The  perils  of  th'  infuriate  fray, 
And  snatch' d  her  breathless  from  beneath 
This  wilderment  of  wreck  and  death  ? 
She  knew  not — for  a  faintness  came 
Chill  o'er  her,  and  her  sinking  frame 
Amid  the  ruins  of  that  hour 
Lay  like  a  pale  and  scorched  flower, 
Beneath  the  red  volcano's  shower  ! 
But  oh  !  the  sights  and  sounds  of  dread 
That  shock'd  her,  ere  her  senses  fled  ! 
The  yawning  deck — the  crowd  that  strove 
Upon  the  tottering  planks  above — 
The  sail,  whose  fragments,  shivering  o'er 
The  strugglers'  heads,  all  dashed  with  gore. 
Flutter'd  like  bloody  flags — the  crash 
Of  sabres,  and  the  lightning's  flash 
Upon  their  blades,  high  toss'd  about 
Like  meteor  brands — as  if  throughout 
The  elements  one  fury  ran, — 

352 


34  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

One  general  rage,  that  left  a  doubt 

Which  was  the  fiercer,  Heaven  or  man  ! 

Once,  too — but  no — it  could  not  be — 

'Twas  fancy  all — yet  once  she  thought. 
While  yet  her  fading  eyes  could  see 

High  on  the  ruin'd  deck  she  caught 
A  glimpse  of  that  unearthly  form, 

That  glory  of  her  soul, — even,  then. 
Amid  the  whirl  of  wreck  and  storm, 

Shining  above  his  fellow-men, 
As,  on  some  black  and  troublous  night, 
The  star  of  Egypt,*  whose  proud  light 
Never  has  beam'd  on  those  who  rest 
In  the  ^^^lite  Islands  of  the  West, 
Burns  through  the  storm  with  looks  of  flame 
That  put  heaven's  cloudier  eyes  to  shame  ! 
But  no — 'twas  but  the  minute's  dream — 
A  fantasy — and  ere  the  scream 
Had  half-way  pass'd  her  pallid  lips, 
A  death-like  swoon,  a  chill  eclipse 
Of  soul  and  sense  its  darkness  spread 
Around  her,  and  she  sunk,  as  dead  1 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone  ; 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray. 
Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity, — 
Fresh  as  if  day  again  were  born, 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn  ! 
When  the  light  blossoms,  rudely  torn 
And  scatter'd  at  the  whirlwind's  will, 

*  The  brilliant  Canopus,  unseen  in  European  climates. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  35 

Hang  floating  in  the  pure  air  still, 
Filling  it  all  with  precious  balm, 
In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  calm  ; — 
And  every  drop  the  thunder  showers 
Have  left  upon  the  giass  and  flowers 
Sparkles,  as  'twere  that  lightning  gem 
^\^lOse  liquid  flame  is  born  of  them  ! 

WTien,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze. 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs, 
And  each  a  difi"erent  perfume  bears, — 

As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone, 
And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs  ! 
When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall. 
In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 
And  even  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 
Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 
Of  lovers'  hearts,  when  newly  blest, 
Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest  ! 
Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 
Upon  the  world,  when  Hinda  woke 
From  her  long  trance,  and  heard  around 
No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 
Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side. 
As  slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide. 
But  where  is  she  ?  her  eyes  are  dark, 
Are  wilder'd  still — is  this  the  bark, 
The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 
Bore  her  at  morn — whose  bloody  way 
The  sea-dog  tracks  ? — no — strange  and  new 
Is  all  that  meets  her  wondering  view. 
Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies. 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade. 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes, 

Nor  jasmine  on  her  pillow  laid. 


36  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

But  the  rude  litter,  roughly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed, 
And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung, 
For  awning  o'er  her  head  are  flung. 
Shuddering  she  look'd  around — there  lay 

A  group  of  warriors  in  the  sun 
Resting  their  limbs,  as  for  that  day 

Their  ministry  of  death  were  done — 
Some  gazing  on  the  drowsy  sea. 
Lost  in  unconscious  reverie  ; 
And  some,  who  seem'd  but  ill  to  brook 
That  sluggish  calm,  with  many  a  look 
To  the  slack  sail  impatient  cast, 
As  loose  it  flagg'd  around  the  mast. 

Blest  Alia  !  who  shall  save  her  now  ? 

There's  not  in  all  that  warrior-band 
One  Arab  sword,  one  turban'd  brow 

From  her  own  faithful  Moslem  land. 
Their  garb — the  leathern  belt  that  wraps 
Each  yellow  vest — that  rebel  hue — 
The  Tartar  fleece  upon  their  caps — 

Yes — yes— her  fears  are  all  too  true, 
And  Heaven  hath,  in  this  dreadful  hour. 
Abandon'd  her  to  Hafed's  power  ; — 
Hafed,  the  Gheber  ! — at  the  thought 

Her  very  heart's-blood  chills  within  ; 
He,  whom  her  soul  was  hourly  taught 

To  loathe,  as  some  foul  fiend  of  sin, 
Some  minister,  whom  hell  had  sent 
To  spread  its  blast  where'er  he  went, 
And  fling,  as  o'er  our  earth  he  trod, 
His  shadow  betwixt  man  and  God ! 
And  she  is  now  his  captive,  thrown 
In  his  fierce  hands,  alive,  alone  ; 
His  the  infuriate  band  she  sees. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  37 

All  infidels — all  enemies  ! 
What  was  the  daring  hope  that  then 
Cross'd  her  like  lightning,  as  again, 
With  boldness  that  despair  had  lent, 

She  darted  through  that  armed  crowd 
A  look  so  searching,  so  intent, 

That  even  the  sternest  warrior  bow'd 
Abash'd,  when  he  her  glances  caught, 
As  if  he  guess'd  whose  form  they  sought. 
But  no — she  sees  him  not — 'tis  gone, 
The  vision,  that  before  her  shone 
Through  all  the  maze  of  blood  and  storm, 
Is  fled — 'twas  but  a  phantom  form — 
One  of  those  passing  rainbow  dreams. 
Half  light,  half  shade,  which  Fancy's  beams 
Paint  on  the  fleeting  mists  that  roll 
In  trance  or  slumber  round  the  soul  ! 


But  now  the  bark,  with  livelier  bound, 

Scales  the  blue  wave — the  crew's  in  motion — 
The  oars  are  out,  and  with  light  sound 
Break  the  bright  mirror  of  the  ocean, 
Scattering  its  brilliant  fragments  round. 
And  now  she  sees — with  horror  sees 
Their  course  is  toward  that  mountain  hold, — 
Those  towers,  that  make  her  life-blood  freeze, 
WTiere  Mecca's  godless  enemies 
Lie,  like  beleaguer'd  scorpions,  roU'd 
In  their  last  deadly,  venomous  fold  ! 
Amid  th'  illumin'd  land  and  flood 
Sunless  that  mighty  mountain  stood  ; 
Save  where,  above  its  awful  head, 
There  shone  a  flaming  cloud,  blood-red 
As  'twere  the  flag  of  destiny 
Huni:  out  to  mark  where  death  would  be  ! 


38  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS, 

Had  her  bevvilder'd  mind  the  power 

Of  thought  in  this  terrific  hour, 

She  well  might  marvel  where  or  how 

Man's  foot  could  scale  that  mountain's  brow  ; 

Since  ne'er  had  Arab  heard  or  known 

Of  path  but  through  the  glen  alone. — 

But  every  thought  is  lost  in  fear, 

When,  as  their  bounding  bark  drew  near 

The  craggy  base,  she  felt  the  waves 

Hurry  them  toward  those  dismal  caves 

That  from  the  deep  in  windings  pass 

Beneath  that  mount's  volcanic  mass — 

And  loud  a  voice  on  deck  commands 

To  lower  the  masts  and  light  the  brands  ! 

Instantly  o'er  the  dashing  tide 

Within  a  cavern's  mouth  they  glide, 

Gloomy  as  that  eternal  porch 

Through  which  departed  spirits  go  ; 
Not  even  the  flare  of  brand  and  torch 

Its  flickering  light  could  further  throw 

Than  the  thick  flood  that  boil'd  below. 
Silent  they  floated — as  if  each 
Sat  breathless,  and  too  awed  for  speech 
In  that  dark  chasm,  where  even  sound 
Seem'd  dark, — so  sullenly  around 
The  goblin  echoes  of  the  cave, 
Mutter'd  it  o'er  the  long  black  wave 
As  'twere  some  secret  of  the  grave  ! 
But  soft — they  pause — the  current  turns 

Beneath  them  from  its  onward  track  ; — 
Some  mighty,  unseen  barrier  spurns 

The  vexed  tide,  all  foaming,  back, 
And  scarce  the  oar's  redoubled  force 
Can  stem  the  eddy's  whirhng  force  : 
When,  hark  ! — some  desperate  foot  has  sprung 
Anions  the  rocks — the  chain  is  flung— 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  39 

The  oars  are  up — the  grapple  clings, 
And  the  toss'd  bark  in  moorings  swings. 
Just  then,  a  day-beam  through  the  shade 
Broke  tremulous — but,  ere  the  maid 
Can  see  from  whence  the  brightness  steals, 
Upon  her  brow  she  shuddering  feels 
A  viewless  hand,  that  promptly  ties 
A  bandage  round  her  burning  eyes  ; 
While  the  rude  litter  where  she  lies, 
Uplifted  by  the  warrior  throng, 
O'er  the  steep  rocks  is  borne  along. 

Blest  power  of  sunshine  !  genial  Day, 
What  balm,  what  life  is  in  thy  ray  ! 
To  feel  thee  is  such  real  bliss, 
That  had  the  world  no  joy  but  this. 
To  sit  in  sunshine  calm  and  sweet, — 
It  were  a  world  too  exquisite 
For  man  to  leave  it  for  the  gloom, 
The  deep,  cold  shadow  of  the  tomb  ! 
Even  Hinda,  though  she  saw  not  where 

Or  whither  wound  the  perilous  road, 
Yet  knew  by  that  awakening  air. 

Which  suddenly  around  her  glow'd. 
That  they  had  risen  from  darkness  then, 
And  breathed  the  sunny  world  again  ! 
But  soon  this  balmy  freshness  fled — 
For  now  the  steepy  labyrinth  led 
Through  damp  and  gloom — 'mid  crash  of  boughs, 
And  fall  of  loosen'd  crags  that  rouse 
The  leopard  from  his  hungry  sleep, 

Who,  starting,  thinks  each  crag  a  prey. 
And  long  is  heard  from  steep  to  steep. 

Chasing  them  down  their  thundering  way  I 
The  jackal's  cry — the  distant  moan 
Of  the  hyana,  fierce  and  lone  : — 


40  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

And  that  eternal,  saddening  sound 

Of  torrents  in  the  glen  beneath, 
As  'twere  the  ever-dark  profound 

That  rolls  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Death  ! 
All,  all  is  fearful — even  to  see, 

To  gaze  on  those  terrific  things 
She  now  but  blindly  hears,  would  be 

Relief  to  her  imaginings  ! 
Since  never  yet  was  shape  so  dread, 

But  Fancy,  thus  in  darkness  thrown, 
And  by  such  sounds  of  horror  fed. 

Could  frame  more  dreadful  of  her  own. 

But  does  she  dream  ?  has  fear  again 
Perplex'd  the  workings  of  her  brain. 
Or  did  a  voice,  all  music,  then 
Come  from  the  gloom,  low  whispering  near- 
"  Tremble  not,  love,  thy  Gheber's  here  ?  " 
She  does  not  dream — all  sense,  all  ear. 
She  drinks  the  words,  "  Thy  Gheber's  here. 
'Twas  his  own  voice — she  could  not  err — 

Throughout  the  breathing  world's  extent, 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her, 

So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent  ! 
Oh  !  sooner  shall  the  rose  of  May 

Mistake  her  own  sweet  nightingale, 
And  to  some  meaner  minstrel's  lay 

Open  her  bosom's  glowing  veil, 
Than  Love  shall  ever  doubt  a  tone, 
A  breath  of  the  beloved  one  ! 
Though  blest,  'mid  all  her  ills,  to  think 

She  has  that  one  beloved  near. 
Whose  smile,  though  met  on  ruin's  brink. 

Has  power  to  make  even  ruin  dear, — 
Yet  soon  this  gleam  of  rapture,  cross'd 
By  fears  for  him,  is  chill'd  and  lost. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  41 

How  shall  the  ruthless  Hafed  brook 
That  one  of  Gheber  blood  should  look, 
"With  aught  but  curses  in  his  eye, 
On  her — a  maid  of  Araby — 
A  Moslem  maid — the  child  of  him 

Whose  bloody  banner's  dire  success 
Has  left  their  altars  cold  and  dim, 

And  their  fair  land  a  wilderness  1 
And,  worse  than  all,  that  night  of  blood 

Which  comes  so  fast— oh  !  who  shall  stay 
The  sword  that  once  has  tasted  food 

Of  Persian  hearts,  or  turn  its  way  ? 
What  arm  shall  then  the  victim  cov 
Or  from  her  father  shield  her  lover  ? 

"  Save  him,  my  God  !  "  she  inly  cries — 
' '  Save  him  this  night — and  if  thine  eyes 

Have  ever  welcomed  with  delight 
The  sinners'  tears,  the  sacrifice 

Of  sinners'  tears — guard  him  this  night, 
And  here,  before  Thy  throne,  I  swear 
From  my  heart's  inmost  core  to  tear 

Love,  hope,  remembrance,  though  they  be 
Link'd  with  each  quivering  life-string  there, 

And  give  it  bleeding  all  to  Thee  ! 
Let  him  but  live,  the  burning  tear, 
The  sighs,  so  sinful  yet  so  dear. 
Which  have  been  all  too  much  his  own, 
Shall  from  this  hour  be  Heaven's  alone. 
Youth  pass'd  in  penitence,  and  age 
In  long  and  painful  pilgrimage, 
Shall  leave  no  traces  of  the  flame 
That  wastes  me  now — nor  shall  his  name 
E'er  bless  my  lips,  but  when  I  pray 
For  his  dear  spirit,  that  away 
Casting  from  its  angelic  ray 


42  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Th'  eclipse  of  earth,  he  too  may  shine 
Redeem'd,  all  glorious  and  all  Thine  ! 
Think — think  what  victory  to  win 
One  radiant  soul  like  his  from  sin  ; — 
One  wandering  star  of  virtue  back 
To  its  own  native,  heavenward  track  1 
Let  them  but  live,  and  both  are  Thine, 

Together  Thine — for,  blest  or  cross'd, 
Living  or  dead,  his  doom  is  mine, 

And  if  he  perish,  both  are  lost  !  " 


To  tearless  eyes  and  hearts  at  ease 
The  leafy  shores  and  sun-bright  seas 
That  lay  beneath  that  mountain's  height 
Had  been  a  fair,  enchanting  sight. 
'Twas  one  of  those  ambrosial  eves 
A  day  of  storm  so  often  leaves 
At  its  calm  setting — when  the  West 
Opens  her  golden  bowers  of  rest, 
And  a  moist  radiance  from  the  skies 
Shoots  trembling  down,  as  from  the  eyes 
Of  some  meek  penitent,  whose  last, 
Bright  hours  atone  for  dark  ones  past, 
And  whose  sweet  tears,  o'er  wrong  forgiven, 
Shine,  as  they  fall,  with  light  from  heaven  ; 
'Twas  stillness  all — the  winds  that  late 

Had  rush'd  through  Kerman's  almond  groves, 
And  shaken  from  her  bowers  of  date 

That  cooling  feast  the  traveller  loves, 
Now,  lull'd  to  languor,  scarcely  curl 

The  Green  Sea  wave,  whose  waters  gleam, 
Limpid,  as  if  her  mines  of  pearl 

Were  melted  all  to  form  the  stream. 
And  her  fair  islets,  small  and  bright, 

With  their  g.reen  shores  reflected  there. 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  43 

Look  like  those  Peri  isles  of  light, 

That  hang  by  spell-work  in  the  air. 
But  vainly  did  those  glories  burst 
On  Hinda's  dazzled  eyes,  when  first 
The  bandage  from  her  brow  was  taken, 
And  pale  and  awed  as  those  who  waken 
In  their  dark  tombs — when  scrowling  near, 
The  Searchers  of  the  Grave*  appear, — 
She,  shuddering,  turn"d  to  read  her  fate 

In  the  fierce  eyes  that  flash' d  around  ; 
And  saw  those  towers  all  desolate, 

That  o'er  her  head  terrific  frown'd, 
As  if  defying  even  the  smile 
Of  that  soft  heaven  to  gild  their  pile. 
In  vain,  with  mingled  hope  and  fear, 
She  looks  for  him  whose  voice  so  dear 
Had  come,  like  music,  to  her  ear — 
Strange,  mocking  dream  !  again  'tis  fled. 
And  oh  !  the  shoots,  the  pangs  of  dread 
That  through  her  inmost  bosom  run, 

When  voices  from  without  proclaim, 
"  Hafed,  the  Chief" — and,  one  by  one, 

The  warriors  shout  that  fearful  name  ! 
He  comes — the  rock  resounds  his  tread — 
How  shall  she  dare  to  lift  her  head, 
Or  meet  those  eyes,  whose  scorching  glare 
Not  Yemen's  boldest  sons  can  bear  ? 
In  whose  red  beam,  the  Moslem  tells, 
Such  rank  and  deadly  lustre  dwells, 
As  in  those  hellish  fires  that  light 
The  mandrake's  charnel  leaves  at  night  I 
How  shall  she  bear  that  voice's  tone, 
At  whose  loud  battle-cry  alone 

*  The  two  terrible  angels,  Moukh-  and  Xakir,  who  are  called 
"The  Searchers  of  the  Grave"  in  the  creed  of  orthodox 
Mussulmans. 


44  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Whole  squadrons  oft  in  panic  ran, 
Scatter'd,  like  some  vast  caravan, 
When,  stretch'd  at  evening  round  the  well. 
They  hear  the  thirsting  tiger's  yell  ? 
Breathless  she  stands,  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Shrinking  beneath  the  fiery  frown, 
Which,  fancy  tells  her,  from  that  brow 
Is  flashing  o'er  her  fiercely  no  vv  ; 
And  shuddering,  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  his  retiring  warrior  band. 
Never  was  pause  so  full  of  dread  ; 

Till  Hafed,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Took  hers,  and  leaning  o'er  her,  said, 
"  Hinda  !  " — that  word  was  all  he  spoke, 
And  'twas  enough — the  shriek  that  broke 

From  her  full  bosom  told  the  rest — 
Panting  with  terror,  joy,  surprise, 
The  maid  but  lifts  her  wondering  eyes 

To  hide  them  on  her  Gheber's  breast ! 
'Tis  he,  'tis  he — the  man  of  blood, 
The  fellest  of  the  Fire-Fiend's  brood, 
Hafed,  the  demon  of  the  fight, 
Whose  voice  unnerves,  whose  glances  blight- 
Is  her  own  loved  Gheber,  mild 
And  glorious  as  when  first  he  smiled 
In  her  lone  tower,  and  left  such  beams 
Of  his  pure  eye  to  light  her  dreams, 
That  she  believed  her  bower  had  given 
Rest  to  some  habitant  of  heaven  ! 

Moments  there  are,  and  this  was  one, 
Snatch'd  like  a  minute's  gleam  of  sun 
Amid  the  black  Simoom's  eclipse — 

Or  like  those  verdant  spots  that  bloom 
Around  the  crater's  burning  lips, 

Sweetening  the  very  edge  of  doom  ! 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

The  past — the  future — all  that  fate 

Can  bring  of  dark  or  desperate 

Around  such  hours,  but  makes  them  cast 

Intenser  radiance  while  they  last  ! 

Even  he,  this  youth — though  dimm'd  and  gone 

Each  star  of  hope  that  cheer'd  him  on — 

His  glories  lost — his  cause  betray'd, 

Iran,  his  dear-lov'd  country  made 

A  land  of  carcases  and  slaves, 

One  dreary  waste  of  chains  and  graves  ! 

Himself  but  lingering,  dead  at  heart, 

To  see  the  last,  long-struggling  breath 
Of  liberty's  great  soul  depart, 

Then  lay  him  down,  and  share  her  death — ■ 
Even  he,  so  sunk  in  wretchedness. 

With  doom  still  darker  gathering  o'er  him. 
Yet  in  this  moment's  pure  caress, 

In  the  mild  eyes  that  shone  before  him, 
Beaming  that  blest  assurance,  worth 
All  other  transports  known  on  earth, 
That  he  was  loved — well,  warmly  loved — 
Oh  !  in  this  precious  hour  he  proved 
How  deep,  how  thorough-felt  the  glow 
Of  rapture,  kindling  out  of  woe  ; — 
How  exquisite  one  single  drop 
Of  bliss,  thus  sparkling  to  the  top 
Of  misery's  cup — how  keenly  quafif'd, 
Though  death  must  follow  on  the  draught  ! 


She  too,  while  gazing  on  those  eyes 
That  sink  into  her  soul  so  deep, 

Forgets  all  fears,  all  miseries, 

Or  feels  them  like  the  wretch  in  sleep, 

WTiom  fancy  cheats  into  a  smile, 

Who  dreams  of  joy,  and  sobs  the  while  ! 


46  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS, 

The  mighty  ruins  where  they  stood, 

Upon  the  mount's  high  rocky  verge, 
Lay  open  towards  the  ocean's  flood, 

Where  lightly  o'er  the  illumin'd  surge 
Many  a  fair  bark  that  all  the  day 
Had  lurk'd  in  sheltering  creek  or  bay 
Now  bounded  on  and  gave  their  sails, 
Yet  dripping,  to  the  evening  gales  ; 
Like  eagles,  when  the  storm  is  done, 
Spreading  their  wet  wings  in  the  sun. 
The  beauteous  clouds,  though  daylight's  star 
Had  sunk  behind  the  hills  of  Lar, 
Were  still  with  lingering  glories  bright, — 
As  if  to  grace  the  gorgeous  west, 
The  Spirit  of  departing  Light 
That  eve  had  left  his  sunny  vest 

Behind  him,  ere  he  wing'd  his  flight. 
Never  was  scene  so  form'd  for  love  ! 
Beneath  them,  waves  of  crystal  move 
In  silent  swell — heaven  glows  above, 
And  their  pure  hearts,  to  transport  given, 
Swell  like  the  wave,  and  glow  like  heaven  ! 
But  ah  !  too  soon  that  dream  is  past — 

Again,  again  her  fear  returns  ; — 
Night,  dreadful  night,  is  gathering  fast, 

More  faintly  the  horizon  burns, 
And  every  rosy  tint  that  lay 
On  the  smooth  sea  has  died  away. 
Hastily  to  the  darkening  skies 
A  glance  she  casts — then  wildly  cries, 
"  At  night,  he  said— and,  look,  'tis  near- 
Fly,  fly — if  yet  thou  lovest  me,  fly — 
Soon  will  his  murderous  band  be  here. 

And  I  shall  see  thee  bleed  and  die. — 
Hush  ! — heardst  thou  no:  the  tramp  of  men 
Sounding  from  yonder  fearful  glen  ? — 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  47 

Perhaps  even  now  they  climb  the  wood — 
Fly,  fly — though  still  the  west  is  bright, 
He'll  come — oh  !  yes — he  wants  thy  blood — 

I  know  him— he'll  not  wait  for  night !  " 
In  terrors  even  to  agony 

She  clings  around  the  wondering  Chief; — 
"Alas,  poor  wilder'd  maid  !  to  me 

Thou  owest  this  raving  trance  of  grief. 
Lost  as  I  am,  nought  ever  grew 
Beneath  my  shade  but  perish'd  too — 
My  doom  is  like  the  Dead  Sea  air, 
And  nothing  lives  that  enters  there  ! 
AMiy  were  our  barks  together  driven 
Beneath  this  morning's  furious  heaven  ? 
Why,  when  I  saw  the  prize  that  chance 

Had  thrown  into  my  desperate  arms, — 
When  casting  but  a  single  glance 

Upon  thy  pale  and  prostrate  charms, 
I  vow'd  (though  watching  viewless  o'er 

Thy  safety  through  that  hour's  alarms) 
To  meet  th'  unmanning  sight  no  more — 
Why  have  I  broke  that  heart-wrung  vow  ? 
Why  weakly,  madly  meet  thee  now  ? — 
Start  not — that  noise  is  but  the  shock 

Of  torrents  through  yon  valley  hurl'd — 
Dread  nothing  here — upon  this  rock 
We  stand  above  the  jarring  world. 
Alike  beyond  its  hope — its  dread — 
In  gloomy  safety,  like  the  dead  ! 
Or,  could  even  earth  and  hell  unite 
In  league  to  storm  this  sacred  height, 
Fear  nothing  thou — myself,  to-night. 
And  each  o'erlooking  star  that  dwells 
Near  God,  will  be  thy  sentinels  ; — 
And,  ere  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  glow. 
Back  to  thy  sire " 


48  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

"  To-morrow  ! — no — '* 
The  maiden  scream'd — "  thou'lt  never  see 
To-morrow's  sun — death,  death  will  be 
The  night-cry  through  each  reeking  tower, 
Unless  we  fly,  ay,  fly  this  hour  ! 
Thou  art  betray'd — some  wretch  who  knew 
That  dreadful  glen's  mysterious  clue — 
Nay,  doubt  not — by  yon  stars,  'tis  true — 
Hath  sold  thee  to  my  vengeful  sire  ; 
This  morning,  with  that  smile  so  dire 
He  wears  in  joy,  he  told  me  all, 
And  stamp'd  in  triumph  through  our  hall, 
As  though  thy  heart  already  beat 
Its  last  life-throb  beneath  his  feet ! 
Good  heaven,  how  little  dream'd  I  then 

His  victim  was  my  own  loved  youth  ! — 
Fly — send — let  some  one  watch  the  glen — 

By  all  my  hopes  of  heaven  ^tis  truth  !  " 
Oh  !  colder  than  the  wind  that  freezes 

Founts,  that  but  now  in  sunshine  play'd. 
Is  that  congealing  pang  which  seizes 

The  trusting  bosom  when  betray'd. 
He  felt  it — deeply  felt — and  stood, 
As  if  the  tale  had  frozen  his  blood, 

So  mazed  and  motionless  was  he ; 
Like  one  whom  sudden  spells  enchant 
Or  some  mute  marble  habitant 

Of  the  still  Halls  of  Ishmonie  ! 


But  soon  the  painful  chill  was  o'er, 
And  his  great  soul,  herself  once  more, 
Look'd  from  his  brow  in  all  the  rays 
Of  her  best,  happiest,  grandest  days  ; 
Never,  in  a  moment  most  elate, 
Did  that  high  spirit  loftier  rise ; 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  49 

Vvhile  bright,  serene,  determinate, 

His  looks  are  lifted  to  the  skies. 
As  if  the  signal-lights  of  Fate 

Were  shining  in  those  awful  eyes  ! 
'Tis  come — his  hour  of  martyrdom 
In  Iran's  sacred  cause  is  come  ; 
And  though  his  life  has  pass'd  away 
Like  lightning  on  a  stormy  day. 
Yet  shall  his  death-hour  leave  a  track 

Of  glory,  permanent  and  bright, 
To  which  the  brave  of  after-times, 
The  suffering  brave,  shall  long  look  back 

With  proud  regret, — and  by  its  light 

Watch  through  the  hours  of  slavery's  night 
For  vengeance  on  the  oppressor's  crimes  ! 
This  rock,  his  monument  aloft, 

Shall  speak  the  tale  to  many  an  age  ; 
And  hither  bards  and  heroes  oft 

Shall  come  in  secret  pilgrimage, 
And  bring  their  warrior  sons,  and  tell 
The  wondering  boys  where  Hafed  fell, 
And  swear  them  on  those  lone  remains 
Of  their  lost  country's  ancient  fanes, 
Never — while  breath  of  life  shall  live 
Within  them — never  to  forgive 
Th'  accursed  race,  whose  ruthless  chain 
Has  left  on  Iran's  neck  a  stain 
Blood,  blood  alone  can  cleanse  again  ! 

Such  are  the  swelling  thoughts  that  now 
Enthrone  themselves  on  Hafed's  brow  ; 
And  ne'er  did  saint  of  Issa*  gaze 

On  the  red  wreath,  for  martyrs  twined, 
More  proudly  than  the  youth  surveys 

*  Jesus. 

353 


50  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

That  pile,  which  through  the  gloom  behind, 
Half  lighted  by  the  altar's  fire, 
Glimmers, — his  destined  funeral  pyre  ! 
Heap'd  by  his  own,  his  comrades'  hands, 

Of  every  wood  of  odorous  breath, 
There,  by  the  Fire- God's  shrine  it  stands. 

Ready  to  fold  in  radiant  death 
The  few  still  left  of  those  who  swore 
To  perish  there,  when  hope  was  o'er — 
The  few  to  whom  that  couch  of  flame, 
Which  rescues  them  from  bonds  and  shame, 
Is  sweet  and  welcome  as  the  bed 
For  their  own  infant  Prophet  spread, 
When  pitying  Heaven  to  roses  turn'd 
The  death-flames  that  beneath  him  burn'd  !* 

With  watchfulness  the  maid  attends 

His  rapid  glance,  where'er  it  bends — 

Why  shoot  his  eyes  such  awful  beams  ? 

What  plans  he  now  ?  what  thinks  or  dreams  ? 

Alas  !  why  stands  he  musing  here, 

When  every  moment  teems  with  fear  ? 

"  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  lord," 

She  kneeling  cries — "first,  last  adored  ! 

If  in  that  soul  thou'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
Here,  on  my  knees  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before, 
I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lovest  me,  fly — 
Now,  now — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
Oh  haste — the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  darkening  sea 

*  The  Ghebers  say  that  when  Abraham,  their  great  prophet, 
was  thrown  into  the  fire  by  order  of  Nimrod,  the  flame  turned 
instantly  into  "a  bed  of  roses,  where  the  child  sweetly 
reposed." 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  51 

East,  west, — alas,  I  care  not  whither, 

So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  thee  ! 
Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  be:ore  me  smiling  thus. 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  storm  and  shine, 

The  world's  a  world  of  love  for  us  ! 
On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell, 
Where  'tis  no  crime  to  love  too  well ; — 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin — or,  if  it  be, 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
Together  kneeling  night  and  day. 
Thou,  lor  mv  sake,  at  Alla's  shrine, 
And  I—  at  aiiy  God's,  for  thine  !  " 


Wildly  these  passionate  words  she  spoke — 
Then  hung  her  head,  and  wept  for  shame  ; 

Sobbing,  as  if  a  heart-string  broke 

With  every  deep -heaved  sob  that  came. 

While  he,  young,  warm — oh  !  wonder  not 
If,  for  a  moment,  pride  and  fame. 
His  oath — his  cause — that  shrine  of  flame, 

And  Iran's  self  are  all  forgot 

For  her  whom  at  his  feet  he  sees 

Kneeling  in  speechless  agonies. 

No,  blame  him  not,  if  Hope  a  while 

Dawn'd  in  his  soul,  and  threw  her  smile 

O'er  hours  to  come — o'er  days  and  nights 

Wing'd  with  those  precious,  pure  delights 

Which  she,  who  l)ends  all  beauteous  there, 

Was  born  to  kindle  and  to  share  ! 

A  tear  or  two,  which,  as  he  bow'd 

To  raise  the  suppliant,  trembling  stole. 

First  warn'd  him  ol  this  dangerous  cloud 


52  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, 

Of  softness  passing  o'er  his  soul. 
Starting,  he  brush'd  the  drops  away, 
Unworthy  o'er  that  cheek  to  stray  ; — 
Like  one  who,  on  the  morn  of  flight, 
Shakes  from  his  sword  the  dew  of  night, 
That  had  but  dimm'd,  not  stain'd  its  Hght, 
Yet  though  subdued  th'  unnerving  thrill, 
Its  warmth,  its  weakness  linger'd  still 

So  touching  in  each  look  and  tone, 
That  the  fond,  fearing,  hoping  maid 
Half  counted  on  the  flight  she  pray'd, 

Half  thought  the  hero's  soul  was  grown 

As  soft,  as  yielding  as  her  own, 
And  smiled  and  bless'd  him  while  he  said,- 
"  Yes — if  there  be  some  happier  sphere, 
^Vhere  fadeless  truth  like  ours  is  dear  ; — 
If  there  be  any  land  of  rest 

For  those  who  love  and  ne'er  forget, 
Oh  !  comfort  thee — for  safe  and  blest 

We'll  meet  in  that  calm  region  yet ;  " 
Scarce  had  she  time  to  ask  ber  heart 
If  good  or  ill  these  words  impart, 
When  the  roused  youth  impatient  flew 
To  the  tower-wall,  where,  high  in  view, 
A  ponderous  sea-horn  hung,  and  blew 
A  signal,  deep  and  dread  as  those 
The  Storm- Fiend  at  his  rising  blows. — 
Full  well  his  chieftains,  sworn  and  true 
Through  life  and  death,  that  signal  knew  ; 
For  'twas  th'  appointed  warning-blast, 
Th'  alarm  to  tell  when  hope  was  past, 
And  the  tremendous  death-die  cast  ! 
And  there,  upon  the  mouldering  tower, 
Has  hung  his  sea-horn  many  an  hour, 
Ready  to  sound  o'er  land  and  sea 
That  dirge-note  of  the  brave  and  free. 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  53 

They  came — his  chieftains  at  the  call 
Came  slowly  round,  and  with  them  all — 
Alas,  how  few  ! — the  worn  remains 
Of  tho-se  who  late  o'er  Kerman's  plains 
Went  gaily  prancing  to  the  clash 

Of  Moorish  zel  and  tymbalon, 
Catching  new  hope  from  every  flash 

Of  their  long  lances  in  the  sun — 
And  as  their  coursers  charged  the  wind, 
And  the  white  oxtails  stream'd  behind. 
Looking  as  if  the  steeds  they  rode 
Were  wing'd,  and  every  chief  a  god  ! 
How  fallen,  how  alter'd  now  !  how  wan 
Each  scarr'd  and  faded  visage  shone, 
As  round  the  burning  shrine  they  came  ; — 

How  deadly  was  the  glare  it  cast, 
As  mute  they  paused  before  the  flame 

To  light  their  torches  as  they  pass'd  ! 
'Twas  silence  all — the  youth  had  plann'd 
The  duties  of  his  soldier-band  ; 
And  each  determined  brow  declares 
His  faithful  chieftains  well  know  theirs. 


But  minutes  speed — night  gems  the  skies, 
And  oh  how  soon,  ye  blessed  eyes, 
That  look  from  heaven,  ye  may  behold 
Sights  that  will  turn  your  star-fires  cold  ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  impatience,  hope, 
The  maiden  sees  the  veteran  group 
Her  litter  silently  prepare, 

And  lay  it  at  her  trembling  feet  ; 
And  now  the  youth,  with  gentle  care, 

Has  placed  her  in  the  sheltered  seat, 
And  press'd  her  hand — that  lingering  press 

Of  hands,  that  for  the  last  time  sever  ; 


54  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Of  hearts,  whose  pulse  of  happiness, 

When  that  hold  breaks,  is  dead  for  ever. 
And  yet  to  her  this  sad  caress 

Gives  hope — so  fondly  hope  can  err  ! 
'Twas  joy,  she  thought,  joy's  mute  excess — 

Their  happy  flight's  dear  harbinger  ; 
'Twas  warmth — assurance — tenderness — 

'Twas  anything  but  leaving  her. 

"Haste,  haste!"  she  cried,  "the  clouds  grow  dark, 
But  still,  ere  night,  we'll  reach  the  bark  : 
And  by  to-morrow's  dawn — oh,  bliss  ! 

With  thee  upon  the  sunbright  deep, 
Far  ofl",  I'll  but  remember  this 

As  some  dark  vanish'd  dream  of  sleep  ! 
And  thou "     But  ha  ! — he  answers  not — 

Good  Heaven  ! — and  does  she  go  alone  ? 
She  now  has  reach'd  that  dismal  spot 

Where,  some  hours  since,  his  voice's  tone 
Had  come  to  soothe  her  fears  and  ills, 
Sweet  as  the  angel  Israfil's 
When  every  leaf  on  Eden's  tree 
Is  trembling  to  his  minstrelsy — 
Yet  now — oh  now,  he  is  not  nigh — 

"  Hafed  !  my  Hafed  !— ifit  be 
Thy  will,  thy  doom  this  night  to  die, 

Let  me  but  stay  to  die  with  thee, 
And  I  will  bless  thy  loved  name. 
Till  the  last  life-breath  leaves  this  frame. 
Oh  !  let  our  lips,  our  cheeks  be  laid 
But  near  each  other  while  they  fade  ; 
Let  us  but  mix  our  parting  breaths. 
And  I  can  die  ten  thousand  deaths  ! 
You  too,  who  hurry  me  away 
So  cruelly,  one  moment  stay — 

Oh  !  stay — one  moment  is  not  much — 


THE  FIRE-  n  ^ORSHIPPERS.  5  5 

He  yet  may  come — for  him  I  pray — 
Hafed  !  hear  Hafed  ! "     All  the  way 

In  wild  lamentings  that  would  touch 
A  heart  of  stone  she  shriek'd  his  name 
To  the  dark  woods — no  Hafed  came  : — 
No — hap. ess  pair — you've  looked  your  last  ; 

Your  hearts  should  both  have  broken  then  : 
The  dream  is  o'er — your  doom  is  cast — 

You'll  never  meet  on  earth  again  ! 

Alas  for  him,  who  hears  her  cries  ! — 

Still  half-way  down  the  steep  he  stands, 
Watching  with  fix'd  and  feverish  eyes 

The  glimmer  of  those  burning  brands 
That  down  the  rocks,  wdth  mournful  ray, 
Light  all  he  loves  on  earth  away  ! 
Hopeless  as  they  who,  far  at  sea, 

By  the  cold  moon  have  just  consign'd 
The  corse  of  one,  loved  tenderly. 

To  the  bleak  flood  they  leave  behind  ; 
And  on  the  deck  still  lingering  stay, 
And  long  look  back,  with  sad  delay, 
To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wave, 
That  ripples  o'er  that  cheerless  grave. 

But  see — he  starts— what  heard  he  then  ? 
That  dreadful  shout  ! — across  the  glen 
From  the  land  side  it  comes,  and  loud 
Rings  through  the  chasm  ;  as  if  the  crowd 
Of  fearful  things  that  haunt  that  dell, 
Its  Gholes  and  Dives,  and  shapes  of  hell, 
Had  all  in  one  dread  howl  broke  out, 
So  loud,  so  terrible  that  shout  I 
"  They  come — the  Moslems  come  !  " — he  cries. 
His  proud  soul  mounting  to  his  eyes, — 
*'Now,  spirits  of  the  brave,  who  roam 


56  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS. 

Enfranchised  through  yon  starry  dome, 
Rejoice — for  souls  of  kindred  fire 
Are  on  the  wing  to  join  your  choir  !  " 
He  said — and,  light  as  bridegrooms  bound 

To  their  young  loves,  re-climb'd  the  steep 
And  gain'd  the  shrine — his  chiefs  stood  round — 

Their  swords,  as  with  instinctive  leap, 
Together,  at  that  cry  accurst, 
Had  from  their  sheaths,  like  sunbeams,  burst. 
And  hark  ! — again — again  it  rings  ; 
Near  and  more  near  its  echoings 
Peal  through  the  chasm — oh  !  who  that  then 
Had  seen  those  listening  warrior-men, 
With  their  swords  grasp'd,  their  eyes  of  flame 
Turn'd  on  their  chief — could  doubt  the  shame, 
Th'  indignant  shame  with  which  they  thrill 
To  hear  those  shouts  and  yet  stand  still  ! 

He  read  their  thoughts — they  were  his  own — 

"What !  while  our  arms  can  wield  these  blades. 
Shall  we  die  tamely  ?  die  alone  ? 

Without  one  victim  to  our  shades, 
One  Moslem  heart  where,  buried  deep, 
The  sabre  from  its  toil  may  sleep  ? 
No — God  of  Iran's  burning  skies  ! 
Thou  scornst  th'  inglorious  sacrifice. 
No — though  of  all  earth's  hope  bereft, 
Life,  swords,  and  vengeance  still  are  left. 
We'll  make  yon  valley's  reeking  caves 

Live  in  the  awe-struck  minds  of  men, 
Till  tyrants  shudder  when  their  slaves 

Tell  of  the  Gheber's  bloody  glen. 
Follow,  brave  hearts  ! — this  pile  remains 
Our  refuge  still  from  life  and  chains  ; 
But  his  the  best,  the  holiest  bed, 
Who  sinks  entomb'd  in  Moslem  dead  !  " 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.  57 

Down  the  precipitous  rocks  they  sprung, 
While  vigour  more  than  human  strung 
Each  arm  and  heart. — Th'  exulting  foe 
Still  through  the  dark  defiles  below, 
Track'd  by  his  torches'  lurid  fire, 

Wound  slow,  as  through  Golconda's  vale, 
The  mighty  serpent,  in  his  ire. 

Glides  on  with  glittering,  deadly  trail. 
No  torch  the  Ghebers  need — so  well 
They  know  each  mystery  of  the  dell, 
So  oft  have,  in  their  wanderings, 
Cross'd  the  wild  race  that  round  them  dwell, 

The  very  tigers  from  their  delves 
Look  out,  and  let  them  pass,  as  things 

Untamed  and  fearless  like  themselves  ! 

There  was  a  deep  ravine  that  lay 
Yet  darkling  in  the  Moslem's  way  ; — 
Fit  spot  to  make  invaders  rue 
The  many  fallen  before  the  few. 
The  torrents  from  that  morning's  sky 
Had  fill'd  the  narrow  chasm  breast-high. 
And,  on  each  side,  aloft  and  wild. 
Huge  cliffs  and  toppling  crags  were  piled, 
The  guards  wath  w^hich  young  Freedom  lines 
The  pathways  to  her  mountain  shrines. 
Here,  at  this  pais,  the  scanty  band 
Of  Iran's  last  avengers  stand  ; — 
Here  wait,  in  silence  like  the  dead, 
And  listen  for  the  ^Moslem's  tread. 
So  anxiously  the  carrion  bird 
Above  them  flaps  his  wing  unheard  ! 
They  come — that  plunge  into  the  water 
Gives  signal  for  the  work  of  slaughter. 
Now,  Ghebers,  now — if  e'er  your  blades 
Had  point  or  prowess,  prove  them  now — 


58  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS, 

Woe  to  the  file  that  foremost  wades  ! 

They  come — a  falchion  greets  each  brow, 
And,  as  they  tumble,  trunk  on  trunk, 
Beneath  the  gory  waters  sunk, 
Still  o'er  their  drowning  bodies  press 
New  victims  quick  and  numberless  ; 
Till  scarce  an  arm  in  Hafed's  band, 

So  fierce  their  toil,  hath  power  to  stir, 
But  listless  from  each  crimson  hand 

The  sword  hangs,  clogg'd  with  massacre. 
Never  was  horde  of  tyrants  met 
With  bloodier  welcome — never  yet 
To  patriot  vengeance  hath  the  sword 
More  terrible  libations  pour'd  ! 
All  up  ihe  dreary,  long  ravine, 
By  the  red,  murky  glimmer  seen 
Of  half-quench'd  brands,  that  o'er  the  flood 
Lie  scatter'd  round  and  burn  in  blood. 
What  ruin  glares  !  what  carnage  swims  ! 
Heads,  blazing  turbans,  quivering  limbs, 
Lost  swords  that,  dropp'd  from  many  a  hand, 
In  that  thick  pool  of  slaughter  stand  ; — 
Wretches  who  wading,  half  on  fire 

From  the  toss'd  brands  that  round  them  fly, 
'Twixt  flood  and  flame,  in  shrieks  expire  ;— 

And  some  who,  grasp'd  by  those  that  die, 
Sink  woundless  with  them,  smother'd  o'er 
In  their  dead  brethren's  gushing  gore  ! 

But  vainly  hundreds,  thousands  bleed. 
Still  hundreds,  thousands  more  succeed  ! — 
Countless  as  towards  some  flame  at  night 
The  North's  dark  insects  wing  their  flight, 
And  quench  or  perish  in  its  light, 
To  this  terrific  spot  they  pour — 
Till,  bridged  with  Moslem  bodies  o'er, 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  59 

It  bears  aloft  their  slippery  tread, 
And  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Tremendous  causeway  !  on  they  pass. — 
Then,  hapless  Ghebers,  then,  alas, 

What  hope  was  left  for  you  ?  for  you, 
Whose  yet  warm  pile  of  sacrifice 
Is  smoking  in  their  vengeful  eyes — 

Whose  swords  how  keen,  how  fierce  they  knew, 

And  burn  with  shame  to  find  how  few. 
Crush'd  down  by  that  vast  multitude, 
Some  found  their  graves  where  first  they  stood  ; 
^\^lile  some  with  harder  struggle  died, 
And  still  fought  on  by  Hafed's  side, 
Who,  fronting  to  the  foe,  trod  back 
Towards  the  high  towers  his  gory  track  ; 
And,  as  a  lion,  swept  away 

By  sudden  swell  of  Jordan's  pride 
From  the  wild  covert  where  he  lay, 

Long  battles  with  th'  o'erwhelming  tide, 
So  fought  he  back  with  fierce  delay, 
And  kept  both  foes  and  fate  at  bay  ! 

But  whither  now?  their  track  is  lost, 

Their  prey  escaped — guide,  torches  gone — 
By  torrent-beds  and  labyrinths  cross'd, 

The  scatter'd  crowd  rush  blindly  on — 
*'  Curse  on  those  tardy  lights  that  wind," 
They  panting  cry,  "  so  far  behind — 
Oh  for  a  bloodhound's  precious  scent, 
To  track  the  way  the  Gheber  went  !  " 
Vain-  wish — confusedly  along 
They  rush,  more  desperate  as  more  wrong  : 
Till,  wilder'd  by  the  far-off  lights. 
Yet  glittering  up  those  gloomy  heights, 
Their  footing,  mazed  and  lost,  they  miss, 
And  down  the  darkling  precipice 


6o  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS, 

Are  dash'd  into  the  deep  abyss  ; — 
Or  midway  hang,  impaled  on  rocks, 
A  banquet,  yet  alive,  for  flocks 
Of  ravening  vultures, — while  the  dell 
Re-echoes  with  each  horrible  yell. 

Those  sounds — the  last,  to  vengeance  dear, 
That  e'er  shall  ring  in  Hafed's  ear, — 
Now  reach'd  him,  as  aloft,  alone. 
Upon  the  steep  way  breathless  thrown, 
He  lay  beside  his  reeking  blade, 

Resign"d,  as  if  life's  task  were  o'er, 
Its  last  blood-offering  amply  paid, 

And  Iran's  self  could  claim  no  more. 
One  only  thought,  one  lingering  beam 
Now  broke  across  his  dizzy  dream 
Of  pain  and  weariness — 'twas  she. 

His  heart's  pure  planet,  shining  yet 
Above  the  \vaste  of  memory. 

When  all  life's  other  lights  were  set ; 
And  never  to  his  mind  before 
Her  image  such  enchantment  wore. 
It  seem'd  as  if  each  thought  that  stain'd, 

Each  fear  that  chill' d  their  loves  was  past, 
And  not  one  cloud  of  earth  remain'd 

Between  him  and  her  glory  cast ; 
As  if  to  charms,  before  so  bright. 

New  grace  from  other  worlds  was  given, 
And  his  soul  saw  her  by  the  light 

Now  breaking  o'er  itself  from  heaven  ! 
A  voice  spoke  near  him — 'twas  the  tone 
Of  a  loved  friend,  the  only  one 
Of  all  his  warriors  left  with  life 
From  that  short  night's  tremendous  strife. — 
*'  And  must  we  then,  my  Chief,  die  here  ? — 
Foes  round  us,  and  the  shrine  so  near  !  " 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  6i 

These  words  have  roused  the  last  remains 

Of  life  within  him — "  What  !  not  yet 
Beyond  the  reach  of  Moslem  chains  !  " 

The  thought  could  make  even  Death  forget 
His  icy  bondage — with  a  bound 
He  springs,  all  bleeding,  from  the  ground, 
And  grasps  his  comrade's  arm,  now  grown 
Even  feebler,  heavier  than  his  own, 
And  up  the  painful  pathway  leads. 
Death  gaining  on  each  step  he  treads. 
Speed  them,  thou  God,  who  heardst  their  vow  ! 
They  mount — they  bleed — oh  !  save  them  now, 
The  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er, 
The  rock-weed's  dripping  with  their  gore — 
Thy  blade  too,  Hafed,  false  at  length, 
Now  breaks  beneath  thy  tottering  strength. 
Haste,  haste,  the  voices  of  the  foe 
Come  near  and  nearer  from  below. 
One  effort  more,  thank  Heaven  !  'tis  past, 
They've  gain'd  the  topmost  steep  at  last. 
And  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Kow  Hafed  sees  the  Fire  Divine, 
When  lo  ! — his  weak,  worn  comrade  falls 

Dead  on  the  threshold  of  the  shrine. 
"Alas,  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled  ! 

And  must  I  leave  thee  withering  here, 
The  sport  of  every  ruffian's  tread, 

The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear  ? 
No,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams  !" 
He  cries,  and,  with  a  strength  that  seems 
Not  of  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 
Of  the  fallen  chief,  and  towards  the  flame 
Bears  him  along  ; — with  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  lays, 
Then  lights  the  consecrated  brand, 

And  fires  the  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze 


62  THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS, 

Like  lightning  bursts  o'er  Oman's  Sea. — 

"  Now,  Freedom's  God  !  I  come  to  Thee," 

The  youth  exclaims,  and  with  a  smile 

Of  triumph  vaulting  on  the  pile, 

In  that  last  effort,  ere  the  fires 

Have  harm'd  one  glorious  limb,  expires  ! 

What  shriek  was  that  on  Oman's  tide  ? 

It  came  from  yonder  drifting  bark, 
That  just  has  caught  upon  her  side 

The  death -light,  and  again  is  dark. 
It  is  the  boat — ah,  why  delay'd  ? — 
That  bears  the  wretched  Moslem  maid  ; 
Confided  to  the  watchful  care 

Of  a  small  veteran  band,  with  whom 
Their  generous  Chieftain  would  not  share 

The  secret  of  his  final  doom  ; 
But  hoped  when  Hinda,  safe  and  free, 

Was  render'd  to  her  father's  eyes, 
Their  pardon,  full  and  prompt,  would  be 

The  ransom  of  so  dear  a  prize. 
Unconscious,  thus,  of  Hafed's  fate, 
And  proud  to  guard  their  beauteous  freight, 
Scarce  had  they  clear'd  the  surfy  waves 
That  foam  around  those  frightful  caves, 
When  the  curst  war-whoops,  known  so  well, 
Came  echoing  from  the  distant  dell — 
Sudden  each  oar,  upheld  and  still, 

Hung  dripping  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 
And,  driving  at  the  current's  will. 

They  rock'd  along  the  whispering  tide, 
Wliile  every  eye,  in  mute  dismay, 

Was  toward  that  fatal  mountain  turn'd. 
Where  the  dim  altar's  quivering  ray 

As  yet  all  lone  and  tranquil  burn'd. 
Oh  !  'tis  not,  Hinda,  in  the  power 


THE  FIRE-  WORSHIPPERS.  63 

Of  fancy's  most  terrific  touch 
To  paint  thy  pangs  in  that  dread  hour  — 

Thy  silent  agony — 'twas  such 
As  those  who  feel  could  paint  too  well, 
But  none  e'er  felt  and  lived  to  tell  ! 
'Twas  not  alone  the  dreary  state 
Of  a  lorn  spirit,  crushed  by  fate, 
When,  though  no  more  remains  to  dread, 

The  panic  chill  will  not  depart  ; — 
\Mien,  though  the  inmate  Hope  be  dead, 

Her  ghost  still  haunts  the  mouldering  heart. 
Xo — pleasures,  hopes,  affections  gone. 
The  wretch  may  bear,  and  yet  live  on, 
Like  things  within  the  cold  rock  found 
Alive  when  all's  congeal'd  around. 
But  there's  a  blank  repose  in  this, 
A  calm  stagnation  that  were  bliss 
To  the  keen,  burning,  harrowing  pain 
Now  felt  through  all  thy  breast  and  brain — 
That  spasm  of  terror,  mute,  intense, 
That  breathless,  agonised  suspense, 
From  whose  hot  throb,  whose  deadly  aching 
The  heart  hath  no  relief  but  breaking  ! 

Calm  is  the  wave — heaven's  brilliant  lights, 

Reflected,  dance  beneath  the  prow  ; — 
Time  was  when,  on  such  lovely  nights, 

She  who  is  there  so  desolate  now, 
Could  sit  all  cheerful,  though  alone. 

And  ask  no  happier  joy  than  seeing 
That  star-light  o'er  the  waters  thrown — 

No  joy  but  that  to  make  her  blest. 
And  the  fresh,  buoyant  sense  of  Being 

That  bounds  in  youth's  yet  careless  breast, — 
Itself  a  star,  not  borrowing  light. 
But  in  its  own  glad  essence  bright. 


64  THE  FIRE- WORSHIPPERS, 

How  different  now  !  but,  hark,  again 
The  yell  of  havoc  rings — brave  men  ! 
In  vain,  with  beating  hearts,  ye  stand 
On  the  bark's  edge — in  vain  each  hand 
Half  draws  the  falchion  from  its  sheath  ; 

All's  o'er — in  rust  your  blades  may  lie  ; — 
He,  at  whose  word  they've  scatter'd  death, 

Even  now,  this  night,  himself  must  die  ! 
Well  may  ye  look  to  yon  dim  tower, 

And  ask,  and  wondering  guess  what  means 
The  battle-cry  at  this  dead  hour — 

Ah  !  she  could  tell  you — she,  who  leans 
Unheeded  there,  pale,  sunk,  aghast, 
With  brow  against  the  dew-cold  mast — 

Too  well  she  knows — her  more  than  life. 
Her  soul's  first  idol  and  its  last, 

Lies  bleeding  in  that  murderous  strife. 

But  see — what  moves  upon  the  height ! 
Some  signal  ! — 'tis  a  torch's  light. 

What  bodes  its  solitary  glare  ? 
In  gasping  silence  toward  the  shrine 
All  eyes  are  turn'd — thine,  Hinda,  thine 

Fix  their  last  failing  life-beams  there. 
'Twas  but  a  moment — fierce  and  high 
The  death-pile  blazed  into  the  sky, 
And  far  away  o'er  rock  and  flood 

Its  melancholy  radiance  sent ; 
While  Hafed,  like  a  vision,  stood 
Reveal'd  before:  the  burning  pyre, 
Tall,  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire 

Shrined  in  its  own  grand  element  ! 
"  'Tis  he  !  " — the  shuddering  maid  exclaims, - 

But,  while  she  speaks,  he's  seen  no  more  ; 
High  burst  in  air  the  funeral  flames. 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  are  o'er  ! 


THE  FIRE- WORSHIPPERS.  65 

One  wild,  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave — 
Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  that  blaze, 
Where  still  she  fix'd  her  dying  gaze, 

And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave, — 

Deep,  deep, — where  never  care  or  pain 

Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  again  ! 


Farewell — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter  ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea :) 
No  pearl  ever  lay  under  Oman's  green  water 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 

Oh  !  fair  as  the  sea  flower  close  to  thee  growing. 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's  witchery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  south  o'er  a  summer  lute  blowing, 
And  hush'd  all  its  music  and  wither'd  its  frame  ! 

Eut  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her,  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  her  tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning. 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the  old, 

The  happiest  there  from  their  pastime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village  maid,  when  with  flowers  she  dresses 
Her  dark-flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day, 

Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses, 
She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  hero  !  forget  thee, — 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start. 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero  she'll  set  thee, 
Embalm'd  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart. 

354 


66  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Farewell ! — be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 

With  everything  beauteous  that  grows  in  the  deep  ; 

Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea  bird  has  wept  : 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow- wreathed  chamber, 
We,  Peris  of  ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head  ; 

We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are  sparkling. 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell  ! — farewell  ! — until  pity's  sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 

They'll   weep   for   the   Chieftain   who    died    on   that 
mountain, 
They'll  weep  for  the  ^Maiden  who  sleeps  in  this  wave. 


Ipatriotic* 


PATRIOTIC, 


REMEMBER  THE  GLORIES  OF  BRIEN  THE 
BRAVE.* 

Remember  the  glories  of  Brien  the  Brave, 

Though  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o'er  ; 
Though  lost  to  ]SIononia..  +  and  cold  in  the  grave, 

He  returns  to  KinkoraJ  no  more  ! 
That  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  has  pour'd 

Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set ; 
But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword 

To  light  us  to  victor}'  yet  1 

Mononia  !  when  nature  embellish'd  the  tint 

Of  thy  fields  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 
Did  she  ever  intend  that  a  tyrant  should  print 

The  footstep  of  slavery  there  ? 
No,  Freedom  !  whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign, 

Go,  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 
'Tis  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  shrine, 

Than  to  sleep  but  a  moment  in  chains  ! 

*  Brien  Borou\he,  or  Boru,  the  great  monarch  of  Ireland,  who 
was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Clontarf,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
eleventh  century,  after  having  defeated  the  Danes  in  twenty-five 
engagements. 

f  Munster. 

\  The  palace  of  Brien. 


70  THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

Forget  not  our  wounded  companions  who  stood 

In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side  ; 
While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  their 
blood, 

They  stirr'd  not,  but  conquer' d  and  died  ! 
That  sun  which  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his  light 

Saw  them  fall  upon  Ossory's  plain  ! 
Oh,  let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to-night, 

To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain  ! 


ERIN  !    THE  TEAR  AND  THE  SMILE  IN 

THINE  EYES. 

Erin  !  the  tear  and  the  smile  in  thine  eyes 
Blend  like  the  rainbow  that  hangs  in  thy  skies  ! 
Shining  through  sorrow's  stream, 
Saddening  through  pleasure's  beam, 
Thy  sons,  with  doubtful  gleam, 
Weep  while  they  rise  ! 

Erin  !  thy  silent  tear  never  shall  cease, 
Erin  !  thy  languid  smile  ne'er  shall  increase, 

Till,  like  the  rainbow's  light, 

Thy  various  tints  unite, 

And  form,  in  Heaven's  sight, 
One  arch  of  peace  ! 

THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

The  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 
In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him. 

His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on. 
And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 


THE  HARP  THA  T  ONCE.  71 

*'  Land  of  song  !  "  said  the  warrior  bard, 
"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 

Of2e  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 
Ofie  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee  !  " 

The  minstrel  fell  ! — but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under  ; 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder  ; 
And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery  !  " 


THE  HARP  THAT  O^XE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls. 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled — 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days. 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er  ; 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more  ! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright, 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  : 
The  chord,  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes. 

The  only  throb  she  gives. 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  hves  \ 


72     WHEN  HE   WHO  ADORES  THEE. 

OH  !  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME.* 

Oh  !  breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonoured  his  relics  are  laid  ; 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark,  be  the  tears  that  we  shed. 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  tho'  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps. 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 


WHEN  HE  WHO  ADORES  THEE. 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
O  say,  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd  ? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree ; 
For,  heav'n  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee  ! 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love  ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine  : — 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  spirit  above, 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine  ! 
Oh  !  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live. 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  : 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  heaven  can  give, 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee  ! 

*  Written  to  commemorate  the  historic  utterance  of  the  great 
Irish  patriot,  Robert  Emmet,  who  in  the  course  of  his  famous 
speech  on  his  trial  for  high  treason  in  1S03  demanded  that  his 
epitaph  should  not  be  written  until  his  country  had  taken  her 
place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth.— Editor. 


SUBLIME   WAS  THE   WARNING.      T2> 
SUBLIME  WAS  THE  WARXIXG. 

Sublime  was  the  warning  which  Liberty  spoke, 
And  grand  was  the  moment  when  Spaniards  awoke 

Into  life  and  revenge  from  the  conqueror's  chain. 
Oh,  Liberty  !  let  not  this  spirit  have  rest. 
Till  it  move,  like  a  breeze,  o'er  the  waves  of  the  west  ! 
Give  the  light  of  your  look  to  each  sorrowing  spot, 
Nor,  oh,  be  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  forgot, 

WTiile  you  add  to  your  garland  the  Olive  of  Spain  ! 

If  the  fame  of  our  fathers,  bequeath'd  with  their  rights, 
Give  to  country  its  charm,  and  to  home  its  delights. 

If  deceit  be  a  wound,  and  suspicion  a  stain, 
Then  ye  men  of  Iberia,  our  cause  is  the  same. 
And  oh  !  may  his  tomb  want  a  tear  and  a  name 
Who  would  ask  for  a  nobler,  a  holier  death, 
Than  to  turn  his  last  sigh  into  victory's  breath, 

For  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain  ! 

Ve  Blakes  and  O'Donnels,  whose  fathers  resign'd 
The  green  hills  of  their  youth,  among  strangers  to  find 

That  repose  which,  at  home,  they  had  sigh'd  for  in 
vain. 
Join,  join  in  our  hope  that  the  flame  which  you  light 
May  be  felt  yet  in  Erin,  as  calm  and  as  bright. 
And  forgive  ev'n  Albion  while  blushing  she  draws. 
Like  a  truant,  her  sword,  in  the  long-slighted  cause 

Of  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain  ! 

God  prosper  the  cause  ! — oh,  it  cannot  but  thrive. 
While  the  pulse  of  one  patriot  heart  is  alive, 

Its  devotion  to  feel,  and  its  rights  to  maintain  ; 
Then,  how  sainted  by  sorrow  its  martjTS  will  die  ! 
The  finger  of  Glory  shall  point  where  they  lie  ; 


74        OH!   BLAME  NOT  THE  BARD. 

While  far  from  the  footstep  of  coward  or  slave, 
The  young  spirit  of  Freedom  shall  shelter  their  grave 
Beneath  Shamrocks  of  Erin  and  Olives  of  Spain  ! 


ERIN  !     OH  ERIN  ! 

Like  the  bright  lamp  that  shone  in  Kildare's  holy  fane, 
And  burn'd  through  long  ages  of  darkness  and  storm, 

Is  the  heart  that  afflictions  have  frown'd  on  in  vain, 
Whose  spirit  outlives  them,  unfading  and  warm. 

Erin  !  oh  Erin  !  thus  bright  thro'  the  tears 

Of  a  long  night  of  bondage  thy  spirit  appears. 

The  nations  have  fallen,  and  thou  still  art  young  ; 

Thy  sun  is  but  rising  when  others  are  set  : 
And  tho'  slavery's  cloud  o'er  thy  morning  hath  hung, 

The  full  moon  of  freedom  shall  beam  round  thee  yet, 
Erin  !  oh  Erin  !  tho'  long  in  the  shade. 
Thy  star  will  shine  out  when  the  proudest  shall  fade  ! 

Unchill'd  by  the  rain,  and  unwak'd  by  the  wind, 
The  lily  lies  sleeping  through  winter's  cold  hour, 

Till  spring's  light  touch  her  fetters  unbind, 

And  daylight  and  liberty  bless  the  young  flower. 

Thus  Erin  !  oh  Erin  !  thy  winter  is  past, 

And  the  hope  that  liv'd  thro'  it  shall  blossom  at  last. 

OH  !  BLAME  NOT  THE  BARD. 

Oh  !  blame  not  the  bard,  if  he  fly  to  the  bowers, 
AMiere  Pleasure  lies  carelessly  smiling  at  Fame, 

He  was  born  for  much  more,  and  in  happier  hours 
His  soul  might  have  burn'd  with  a  holier  flame  ; 


OH !  BLAME  NOT  THE  BARD.       75 

The  string  that  now  languishes  loose  o'er  the  lyre, 
Might  have  bent  a  proud  bow  to  the  warrior's  dart ; 

And  the  lip,  which  now  breathes  but  the  song  of  desire, 
Might  have  pour'd  the  full  tide  of  a  patriot's  heart. 

But  alas  for  his  country  ! — her  pride  has  gone  by, 

And  that  spirit  is  broken,  which  never  would  bend  ; 
O'er  the  ruin  her  children  in  secret  must  sigh, 

For  'tis  treason  to  love  her,  and  death  to  defend. 
Unpriz'd  are  her  sons,  till  they've  learn'd  to  betray ; 
Undistinguish'd   they   live,    if  they   shame    not  their 
sires  : 
And   the  torch,    that  would   light   them  thro'    dignity's 
way. 
Must   be   caught   from   the   pile  where  their  country 
expires  I 

Then  blame  not  the  bard,  if  in  pleasure's  soft  dream, 

He  should  try  to  forget  what  he  never  can  heal ; 
Oh  !  give  but  a  hope,  let  a  vista  but  gleam 

Through  the  gloom  of  his  countr}',  and  mark  how  he'll 
feel  ! 
That  instant,  his  heart  at  her  shrine  would  lay  down 

Every  passion  it  nurs'd,  every  bliss  it  ador'd, 
\Miile  the  myrtle,  now  idly  entwin'd  with  his  crown. 

Like  the  wreath  of  Harmodius,  should  cover  his  sword. 

But  tho'  glory  be  gone,  and  tho'  hope  fade  away, 

Thy  name,  loved  Erin,  shall  live  in  his  songs. 
Not  ev'n  in  the  hour,  when  his  heart  is  most  gay. 

Will  he  lose  the  remembrance  of  thee  and  thy  wrongs. 
The  stranger  shall  hear  thy  lament  on  his  plains ; 

The  sigh  of  thy  harp  shall  be  sent  o'er  the  deep, 
Till  thy  masters  themselves,  as  they  rivet  thy  chains, 

Shall  pause  at  the  song  of  their  captive,  and  weep  ! 


76  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

By  the  hope  within  us  springing, 

Herald  of  to-morrow's  strife  ; 
By  that  sun  whose  light  is  bringing 

Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life— 
O  !  remember,  life  can  be 
No  charm  for  him  who  lives  not  free  ! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave, 

Sinks  a  hero  in  his  grave, 
Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a  nation's  tears  i 

Happy  is  he  o'er  whose  decline 

The  smiles  of  home  may  soothing  shine, 
And  light  him  down  the  steep  of  years — 

But  oh  !  how  blest  they  sink  to  rest. 

Who  close  their  eyes  on  victory's  breast  ! 

O'er  his  watch-fire's  fading  embers 
Now  the  foeman's  cheek  turns  white, 

When  his  heart  that  field  remembers, 
Where  we  tam'd  his  tyrant  might  ! 

Never  let  him  bind  again 

A  chain,  like  that  we  broke  from  then. 
Hark  !  the  horn  of  combat  calls — 
Ere  the  golden  evening  falls, 

May  we  pledge  that  horn  in  triumph  round  ! 
Many  a  heart  that  now  beats  high, 
In  slumber  cold  at  night  shall  lie, 

Nor  waken  even  at  victory's  sound — 
But  oh  !  how  blest  that  hero's  sleep, 
Cer  whom  a  wondering  world  shall  weep  ! 


IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS.  77 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

Night  clos'd  around  the  conqueror's  way, 

And  lightnings  show'd  the  distant  hill, 
WTiere  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day 

Stood  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still  ! 
The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal, 

For  ever  dimm'd,  for  ever  crost — 
Oh  !  who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel, 

When  all  but  life  and  honour's  lost  ? 

The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom's  dream, 

And  valour's  task,  mov'd  slowly  by, 
Wliile  mute  they  watch'd,  till  morning's  beam 

Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die. 
There's  yet  a  world  where  souls  are  free. 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature's  bliss  ; 
If  death  that  world's  bright  opening  be, 

Oh  !  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this  ? 

THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS.* 

Through  grief  and    through   danger   thy   smile   hath 

cheer' d  my  way, 
Till  hope  seem'd  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round  me 

lay  : 
The   darker   our   fortune,    the    brighter   our   pure    love 

burn'd, 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turn'd. 

*  Allegorical— the  poem  is  really  addressed  by  the  peasant 
to  the  persecuted  Church  of  his  fathers.  Those  who  object  to 
the  lyric  being:  placed  among  the  patriotic  pieces  may  be 
reminded  that  for  generations  Catholicism  and  patriotism  were 
equally  proscribed  in  Ireland,  and  thus  they  became,  and  thus, 
to  a  remarkable  extent,  they  still  are,  identical.— Elitor. 


78  777^  PRINCE 'S  DA  V. 

Yes,  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 
And  bless'd  even  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear  to 
thee. 

Thy  rival  was  honour'd,  whilst  thou  wert  wrong'd  and 

scorn'd, 
Thy  crown  was  of  briers,  while  gold  her  brows  adorn'd  ; 
She  woo'd  me  to  temples,  while  thou  layest  hid  in  caves, 
Her  friends  were  all   masters,  while   thine,  alas  !    were 

slaves  : 
Yet  cold  in  the  earth,  at  thy  feet,  I  would  rather  be, 
Than  wed  what  I  love  not,  or  turn  one  thought  from  thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely,  who  say  thy  vows  are  frail — 
Hadst  thou  been  a  false  one,  thy  cheek  had  look'd  less 

pale  ; 
They  say   too,  so   long  thou   hast  worn  those  lingering 

chains, 
That   deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed  their  servile 

stains — 
Oh  !    foul   is   the   slander — no    chain    could    that    soul 

subdue — 
Where  shineth  f/zy  spirit,  there  liberty  shineth  too  ! 


THE  PRINCE'S  DAY.* 

Tho'  dark  are  our  sorrows,  to-day  we'll  forget  them, 
And   smile    through    our    tears,    like   a   sunbeam    in 
show'rs  ; 

There  never  were  hearts,  if  our  rulers  would  let  them, 
More  form'd  to  be  grateful  and  blest  than  ours  ! 

*  This  song  was  written  for  a  fete  in  honour  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales's  birthday,  given  by  my  friend,  Major  Bryan,  last  year 
(IblO),  at  his  seat  in  the  county  of  Kilkenny. 


THE  PRINCE'S  DA  V.  79 

But  just  when  the  chain 
Has  ceas'd  to  pain, 
And  hope  has  enwreath'd  it  round  with  flow'rs, 
There  comes  a  new  link 
Our  spirits  to  sink — 
Oh  !  the  joy  that  we  taste,  like  the  light  of  the  poles. 

Is  a  flash  amid  darkness,  too  brilliant  to  stay  : 

But  though  'twere  the  last  little  spark  in  our  souls, 

We  must  light  it  up  now,  on  our  Prince's  day. 


Contempt  on  the  minion  who  calls  you  disloyal  ! 

Though  fierce  to  your  foe,  to  your  friends  you  are  true  ; 
And  the  tribute  most  high  to  a  head  that  is  royal. 
Is  love  from  a  heart  that  loves  liberty  too. 
While  cowards,  who  blight 
Your  fame,  your  right, 
Would  shrink  from  the  blaze  of  the  battle  array  : 
The  standard  of  green 
In  front  would  be  seen — 
Oh  !    my  life  on  your  faith  !    were  you  summon'd  this 
minute. 
You'd  cast  every  bitter  remembrance  away, 
And  show  what  the  arm  of  old  Erin  has  in  it, 
When  roused  by  the  foe,  on  her  Prince's  day. 


He  loves  the  Green  Isle,  and  his  love  is  recorded 

In  hearts  which  have  suffer'd  too  much  to  forget ; 
And  hope  shall  be  crown'd,  and  attachment  rewarded. 
And  Erin's  gay  Jubilee  shine  out  yet  ! 
The  gem  may  be  broke 
By  many  a  stroke, 
But  nothing  can  cloud  its  native  ray ; 
Each  fragment  will  cast 
A  light  to  the  last : 


So  WHEN  FIRST  I  MET  THEE. 

And  thus  Erin,  my  country  !  though  broken  thou  art, 
There's  a  hist  re  within  thee,  that  ne'er  will  decay  ; 

A  spirit  that  beams  through  each  suffering  part, 
And  now  smiles  at  their  pain,  on  the  Prince's  day. 


WHEN  FIRST  I  MET  THEE.* 

When  first  I  met  thee,  warm  and  young, 

There  shone  such  truth  about  thee, 
And  on  thy  lip  such  promise  hung, 

I  did  not  dare  to  doubt  thee. 
I  saw  thee  change,  yet  still  relied, 
Still  clung  with  hope  the  fonder, 
And  thought,  though  false  to  all  beside, 
From  me  thou  could'st  not  wander. 
But  go,  deceiver  !  go, — 

The  heart,  whose  hopes  could  make  it 
Trust  one  so  false,  so  low, 

Deserves  that  thou  should'st  break  it ! 

When  every  tongue  thy  follies  nam'd, 

I  fled  the  unwelcome  story  ; 
Or  found,  in  even  the  faults  they  blam'd. 

Some  gleams  of  future  glory. 
I  still  was  true,  when  nearer  friends 

Conspir'd  to  wrong,  to  slight  thee  ; 
The  heart  that  now  thy  falsehood  rends, 

Would  then  have  bled  to  right  thee. 

*  These  lines  are  supposed  to  be  addressed  by  Erin  to  the 
Prince  Regent  (afterwards  Georoe  IV.),  who  in  his  earlier  days 
professed  liberal  sentiments  with  regard  to  Ireland,  but  after- 
wards associated  himself  with  the  anti-Irish  and  anti-Catholic 
party.— Editor. 


WHEN  FIRST  I  MET  THEE.         8i 

But  go,  deceiver  !  go, — 

Some  day,  perhaps,  thou'lt  waken 

From  pleasure's  dream  to  know 
The  grief  of  hearts  forsaken. 

Even  now,  though  youth  its  bloom  has  shed. 

No  lights  of  age  adorn  thee ; 
The  few,  who  lov'd  thee  once,  have  fled. 

And  they  who  flatter  scorn  thee. 
Thy  midnight  cup  is  pledg'd  to  slaves, 

No  genial  ties  unwreath  it, 
The  smiling  there,  like  light  on  graves. 
Has  rank,  cold  hearts  beneath  it  ! 
Go — go — though  worlds  were  thine, 

I  would  not  now'  surrender 
One  taintless  tear  of  mine, 
For  all  thy  guilty  splendour  ! 

And  days  may  come,  thou  false  one  !  yet, 

When  even  those  ties  shall  sever  ; 
When  thou  wilt  call  with  vain  regret, 

On  her  thou'st  lost  for  ever  ; 
On  her  who,  in  thy  fortune's  fall, 

With  smiles  had  still  receiv'd  thee, 
And  gladly  died  to  prove  thee  all 
Pier  fancy  first  believ'd  thee. 
Go — go — 'tis  vain  to  curse, 

'Tis  weakness  to  upbraid  thee ; 
Hate  cannot  wish  thee  worse 

Than  guilt  and  shame  hath  made  thee. 


355 


82  WEEP  ON,   WEEP  ON. 

AVENGING  AND    BRIGHT  FELL  THE    SWIFT 
SWORD  OF  ERIN. 

Avenging  and  bright  fell  the  swift  sword  of  Erin, 

On  him  who  the  sons  of  Usna  betray'd  ; 
For  ev'ry  fond  eye  he  hath  waken'd  a  tear  in, 

A  drop  from  his  heart-wounds  shall  weep   o'er   her 
blade. 
By  the  red  cloud  that  hung  over  Conor's  dark  dwelling. 

When  Ulad's  three  champions  lay  sleeping  in  gore  ; 
By  the  pillows  of  war  which,  so  often,  high  swelling, 

Have  wafted  these  heroes  to  victory's  shore  ! — 

We  swear  to  avenge  them  ! — no  joy  shall  be  tasted, 

The  harp  shall  be  silent,  the  maiden  unwed, 
Our  hall  shall  be  mute,  and  our  fields  shall  lie  wasted, 

Till  vengeance  is  wreak'd  on  the  murderer's  head  ! 
Yes,  monarch  !  tho'  sweet  are  our  home  recollections, 

Tho'  sweet  are  the  tears  that  from  tenderness  fall  ! 
Though  sweet  are  our  friendships,  our  hopes,  our  affec- 
tions, 

Revenge  on  a  tyrant  is  sweetest  of  all ! 


WEEP  ON,  WEEP  ON. 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past, 

Your  dreams  of  pride  are  o'er  ; 
The  fatal  chain  is  round  you  cast, 

And  you  are  men  no  more  ! 
In  vain  the  Hero's  heart  hath  bled  ; 

The  Sage's  tongue  hath  warn'd  in  vain 
Oh,  Freedom  !  once  thy  flame  hath  fled. 

It  never  lights  again  ! 


THE  DIRGE.  Z^ 

Weep  on — Perhaps,  in  after-days, 

They'll  learn  to  love  your  name  ; 
And  many  a  deed  may  wake  in  praise, 

That  long  hath  slept  in  blame  ! 
And  when  they  tread  the  ruin'd  isle, 

\\Tiere  rest,  at  length,  the  lord  and  slave, 
They'll  wondering  ask  how  hands  so  vile 

Could  conquer  hearts  so  brave  ? 

"  'Twas  fate,"  they'll  say,   "  a  wayward  fate 

Your  web  of  discord  wove  ; 
And  while  your  tyrants  join'd  in  hate, 

You  never  join'd  in  love  ; 
But  hearts  fell  off,  that  ought  to  twine, 

And  man  profan'd  what  God  hath  given, 
Till  some  were  heard  to  curse  the  shrine 

^Vhere  others  knelt  to  heaven  ! 


THE  DIRGE. 

How  oft  has  the  Banshee  cried  ! 
How  oft  has  death  untied 
Bright  links  that  Glory  wove, 
Sweet  bonds,  entwin'd  by  Love  ! 

Peace  to  each  manly  soul  that  sleepeth  ; 

Rest  to  each  faithful  eye  that  weepeth  ; 
Long  may  the  fair  and  brave 
Sigh  o'er  the  hero's  grave  ! 

\Ye're  fallen  upon  gloomy  days  ! 
Star  after  star  decays, 
Every  bright  name  that  shed 
Light  o'er  the  land  is  fled. 


84  LET  ERIN  REMEMBER. 

Dark  falls  the  tear  of  him  who  mourneth 
Lost  joy,  or  hope  that  ne'er  returnelh  ; 
But  brightly  flows  the  tear 
Wept  o'er  a  hero's  bier. 

Quench'd  are  our  beacon  lights — 
Thou,  of  the  Hundred  Fights  ! 
Thou,  on  whose  burning  tongue 
Truth,  peace,  and  freedom  hung  I 
Both  mute, — but  long  as  valour  shineth, 
Or  mercy's  soul  at  war  repineth, 
So  long  shall  Erin's  pride 
Tell  how  they  liv'd  and  died. 


LET  ERIN  RExMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OF  OLD. 

Let  Erin  remember  the  days  of  old, 

Ere  her  faithless  sons  betray'd  her ; 
When  Malachi  wore  a  collar  of  gold, 

Which  he  won  from  her  proud  invader  ; 
When  her  kings,  with  standard  of  green  unfurl'd, 

Led  the  Red-Branch  Knights  to  danger  ; 
Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  western  world 

Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a  stranger. 

On  Lough  Neagh's  bank  as  the  fisherman  strays, 

When  the  clear,  cold  eve's  declining, 
He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 

In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining ; 
Thus  shall  memory  often,  in  dreams  sublime, 

Catch  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over  ; 
Thus,  sighing,  look  through  the  waves  of  time 

For  the  long-faded  glories  they  cover. 


THE  SONG  OF  O'RUARK.  85 

THE  SOXG  OF  O'RUARK,  PRINCE  OF 
BREFFNL* 

The  valley  lay  smiling  before  me, 

Where  lately  I  left  her  behind  ; 
Yet  I  trembled,  and  sorhething  hung  o'er  me, 

That  sadden'd  the  joy  of  my  mind. 
I  look'd  for  the  lamp  which  she  told  me 

Should  shine  when  her  pilgrim  return'd  ; 
But  though  darkness  began  to  infold  me, 

No  lamp  from  the  battlements  burn'd. 

I  flew  to  her  chamber — 'twas  lonely 
As  if  the  lov'd  tenant  lay  dead  ! — 

Ah,  would  it  were  death,  and  death  only  I 
But  no — the  young  false  one  had  fled. 

*  These  stanzas  are  founded  upon  an  event  of  most  melan- 
choly importance  to  Ireland ;  if,  as  we  are  told  by  our  Irish 
historians,  it  gave  England  the  first  opportunity  of  dividing, 
conquering,  and  enslaving  us.  The  following  are  the  circum- 
stances, as  related  by  O'Halloran:— "  The  King  of  Leinster  had 
long  conceived  a  violent  affection  for  Dearbhorgil,  daughter  to 
the  King  of  Meath,  and  though  she  had  been  for  some  time 
married  to  O'Ruark,  Prince  of  Breflfni.  yet  it  could  not  restrain 
his  passion.  They  carried  on  a  private  correspondence,  and  she 
informed  him  that  O'Ruark  intended  soon  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage 
(an  act  of  piety  frequent  in  those  days),  and  conjured  him  to 
embrace  that  opportunity  of  conveying  her  from  a'husband  she 
detested  to  a  lover  she  adored.  Mac  Murchad  too  punctually 
obeyed  the  summons,  and  had  the  lady  conveyed  to  his  capital 
of  Ferns."  The  monarch  Roderic  espoused  the  cause  of 
O'Ruark  ;  while  Mac  Murchad  fled  to  England,  and  obtained 
the  assistance  of  Henry  II.  "  Such,"  adds  Giraldus  Cambren- 
sis,  "is  the  variable  and  tickle  nature  of  women,  by  whom  all 
-mischief  in  the  world  (for  the  most  part)  do  happen  and  come, 
as  may  appear  by  Marcus  Antoninus,  and  by  the  destruction  of 
Troy." 


86  HAS  SORROW  THY  YOUNG  DAYS. 

And  there  hung  the  kite  that  could  soften 

My  very  worst  pains  into  bliss, 
\\'hile  the  hand  that  had  waked  it  so  often 

Now  throbb'd  to  a  proud  rival's  kiss. 

There  was  a  time,  falsest  of  women  ! 

When  Breffni's  good  sv/ord  would  have  sought 
That  man  through  a  million  of  foemen, 

Who  dared  but  to  doubt  thee  in  thought. 
While  now — oh  !  degenerate  daughter 

Of  Erin,  how  fall'n  is  thy  fame  ! 
And,  through  ages  of  bondage  and  slaughter, 

Thy  country  shall  bleed  for  thy  shame. 

Already  the  curse  is  upon  her, 

And  strangers  her  valleys  profane  ; 
They  come  to  divide — to  dishonour, 

And  tyrants  they  long  will  remain  ! 
But,  onward  ! — the  green  banner  rearing, 

Go,  flesh  ev'ry  sword  to  the  hilt  ; 
On  our  side  is  Virtue  and  Erin, 

On  theirs  is  the  Saxon  and  Guilt. 


HAS  SORROW  THY  YOUNG  DAYS  SHADED. 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded 

As  clouds  o'er  the  morning  fleet  ? 
Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 

That  even  in  sorrow  were  sweet  ? 
Does  Time  with  his  cold  wing  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear  ? 
Come,  child  of  misfortune  !  come  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 


WHILE  HISTORY'S  MUSE.  87 

Has  love  to  that  soul  so  tender 

Been  like  our  Lagenian  mine, 
Where  sparkles  of  golden  splendour 

All  over  the  surface  shine  ? 
But  if  in  pursuit  we  go  deeper, 

Allur'd  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 
Ah  !  false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 

Like  Love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone. 

Has  Hope,  like  the  bird  in  the  story, 

That  flitted  from  tree  to  tree 
With  the  talisman's  glittering  glory — 

Has  Hope  been  that  bird  to  thee? 
On  branch  after  branch  alighting, 

The  gem  did  she  still  display, 
And  when  nearest  and  most  inviting, 

Then  waft  the  fair  gem  away? 

If  thus  the  sweet  hours  have  fleeted, 

AMien  Sorrow  herself  look'd  bright ; 
If  thus  the  fond  hope  has  cheated, 

That  led  thee  along  so  light  ; 
If  thus,  too,  the  cold  world  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear  : 
Come,  child  of  misfortune  !  come  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 

WHILE  HISTORY'S  MUSE  THE  MEMORIAL 
WAS  KEEPING. 

While  History's  Muse  the  memorial  was  keeping 
Of  all  that  the  dark  hand  of  Destiny  weaves, 

Beside  her  the  Genius  of  Erin  stood  weeping. 
For  her's  was  the  story  that  blotted  the  leaves. 


88         OH!    WHERE'S  THE  SLAVE. 

But,  oh  !  how  the  tear  in  her  eyelids  grew  bright, 
When,  after  whole  pages  of  sorrow  and  shame, 

She  saw  History  write, 

With  a  pencil  of  light, 
That   illum'd    the   whole   volume,   her   Wellington's 


"  Hail,  Star  of  my  Isle!"  said  the  Spirit,  all  sparkling 
With  beams,  such  as  burst  from  her  own  dewy  skies  ; 
"  Through  ages  of  sorrow,  deserted  and  darkling, 

I've  watch'd  for  some  glory  like  thine  to  arise. 
For  though  Heroes  I've  number'd,  unblest  was  their  lot, 
And  unhallow'd  they  sleep  in  the  cross- ways  of  fame. 
But,  oh  !  there  is  not 
One  dishonouring  blot 
On  the  wreath  that  encircles  my  Wellington's  name  ! 

"  And  still  the  last  crown  of  thy  toils  is  remaining, 

The  grandest,  the  purest,  e'en  thou  hast  yet  known  ; 
Tho'  proud  was  thy  task,  other  nations  unchaining, 
Far  prouder  to  heal  the  deep  wounds  of  thy  own. 
At  the  foot  of  that  throne,  for  whose  weal  thou  hast  stooa, 
Go  plead  for  the  land  that  first  cradled  thy  fame — 
And,  bright  o'er  the  flood 
Of  her  fears  and  her  blood. 
Let  the  rainbow  of  Hope  be  her  Wellington's  name!" 


OH  I  WHERE'S  THE  SLAVE. 

Oh  !   Where's  the  slave,  so  lowly, 
Condemn'd  to  chains  unholy, 

Who,  could  he  burst. 

His  bonds  at  first, 


TIS  GONE,  AND  FOR  EVER.         89 

Would  pine  beneath  them  slowly  ? 
What  soul,  whose  wrongs  degrade  it. 
Would  wait  till  time  decay'd  it, 

When  thus  its  wing 

At  once  may  spring 
To  the  throne  of  Him  who  made  it  ? 

Farewell,  Erin  !  farewell  all 

^\^lo  live  to  weep  our  fall  ! 

Less  dear  the  laurel  growing, 
Alive,  untouch'd,  and  blowing, 

Than  that,  whose  braid 

Is  piuck'd  to  shade 
The  brows  with  victory  glowing  ! 
We  tread  the  land  that  bore  us, 
Our  green  flag  glitters  o'er  us, 

The  friends  we've  tried 

Are  by  our  side, 
And  the  foe  we  hate  before  us  ! 

Farewell,  Erin,  farewell  all 

Who  live  to  weep  our  fall ! 


'TIS  GONE,  AND  FOR  EVER. 

'TiS  gone,  and  for  ever,  the  light  we  saw  breaking. 

Like  Heaven's  first  dawn  o'er  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 
When  man,  from  the  slumber  of  ages  awaking, 

Look'd  upward  and  bless'd  the  pure  ray,  ere  it  fled  ! 
'Tis  gone,  and  the  gleams  it  has  left  of  its  burning, 
But  deepen  the  long  night  of  bondage  and  mourning. 
That  dark  o'er  the  kingdom  of  earth  is  returning, 
And  darkest  of  all,  hapless  Erin  !  o'er  ihee. 


90     THE  FAREWELL  TO  MY  HARP. 

For  high  was  thy  hope,  when  those  glories  were  darting 
Around  thee,  thro'  all  the  gross  clouds  of  the  world  ; 
When  Truth,  from  her  fetters  indignantly  starting, 

At  once,  like  a  sunburst,  her  banner  unfurl'd. 
Oh,  never  shall  earth  see  a  moment  so  splendid  ! 
Then,  had  that  one  hymn  of  deliverance  blended 
The  tongues  of  all  nations,  how  sweet  had  ascended 

The  first  note  of  Liberty,  Erin  !  from  thee. 

But  shame  on  those  tyrants,  who  envied  the  blessing  ! 

And  shame  on  the  light  race,  unworthy  its  good. 
Who,  at  Death's  reeking  altar,  like  furies  caressing, 

The  youRL^  hope  of  Freedom,  baptis'd  it  in  blood  ! 
Then  vanish'd  for  ever  that  fair  sunny  vision, 
Which,  spile  of  the  slavish,  the  cold  heart's  derision, 
Shall  long  be  remember'd,  pure,  bright,  and  elysian, 

As  first  it  arose,  my  lost  Erin  !  on  thee. 


THE  FAREWELL  TO  MY  HARP. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  country,  in  darkness  I  found  thee, 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long. 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp  !   I  unbound  thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song  ! 
The  warm  lay  of  love,  and  the  light  note  of  gladness. 

Have  waken'd  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill  : 
But  so  oft  hast  thou  echoed  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness. 

That  e'en  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  country  !  farewell  to  thy  numbers, 
This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine, 

Go, — sleep,  with  the  sunshine  of  fame  on  thy  slumbers, 
Till  touch'd  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 


AS  VANQUISHED  ERIN.  91 

If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 
Have  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone, 

I  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 
And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  wak'd  was  thy  own  ! 


AS  VANQUISHED  ERIN. 

As  vanquished  Erin  wept  beside 

The  Boyne's  ill-fated  river, 
She  saw  where  Discord,  in  the  tide, 

Had  dropped  his  loaded  quiver. 
"  Lie  hid,"  she  cried,  "  ye  venomed  darts, 

Where  mortal  eye  may  shun  you  ; 
Lie  hid — for  oh  !  the  stain  of  hearts 

That  bled  for  me  is  on  you. " 

But  vain  her  wish,  her  weeping  vain — 

As  Time  too  well  hath  taught  her  : 
Each  year  the  fiend  returns  again, 

And  dives  into  that  water  : 
And  brings  triumphant,  from  beneath. 

His  shafts  of  desolation, 
And  sends  them,  winged  with  worse  than  death, 

Throughout  her  maddening  nation. 

Alas  for  her  who  sits  and  mourns, 

Even  now  beside  that  river — 
Unwearied  still  the  fiend  returns. 

And  stored  is  still  his  quiver. 
"  When  will  this  end  ?  ye  Powers  of  Good  !  " 

She  weeping  asks  for  ever  ; 
But  only  hears,  from  out  that  flood. 

The  demon  answer,  "  Never  !  " 


52      THE  DREAM  OF  THOSE  DA  YS. 

FROM  THIS  HOUR  THE  PLEDGE  IS  GIVEN. 

From  this  hour  the  pledge  is  given, 

From  this  hour  my  soul  is  thine  ; 
Come  what  will,  from  earth  or  heaven, 

Weal  or  woe,  thy  fate  be  mine. 
When  the  proud  and  great  stood  by  thee, 

None  dared  thy  rights  to  spurn  ; 
And  if  now  they're  false  and  fly  thee, 

Shall  I,  too,  basely  turn  ? 
No  ; — whate'er  the  fires  that  try  thee, 

In  the  same  this  heart  shall  burn. 

Tho'  the  sea,  where  thou  embarkest, 

Offers  now  no  friendly  shore, 
Light  may  come  where  all  looks  darkest, 

Hope  hath  life,  when  life  seems  o'er. 
And,  of  those  past  ages  dreaming, 

When  glory  deck'd  thy  brow. 
Oft  I  fondly  think,  though  seeming 

So  fall'n  and  clouded  now, 
Thou'lt  again  break  lorth,  all  beaming, — 

None  so  bright,  so  blest  as  thou  ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  THOSE  DAYS. 

The  dream  of  those  days  when  first  I  sung  thee  is  o'er, 
Thy   triumph  hath   stain'd  the  charm  thy  sorrows  then 

wore  ; 
And  ev'n    of  the  light  which  Hope  once  shed  o'er  thy 

chains, 
Alas,  not  a  gleam  to  grace  thy  freedom  remains. 


SONG  OF  INNISFAIL.  93 

Say,  is  it  that  slavery  sunk  so  deep  in  thy  heart, 

That  still  the  dark  brand  is  there,  tho'  chainless  thou  art ; 

And  Freedom's  sweet  fruit,   for  which  thy   spirit    long 

burn'd, 
Now,  reaching  at  last  thy  lip,  to  ashes  hath  turn'd  ? 

Up  Liberty's  steep  by  Truth  and  Eloquence  led, 
With  eyes  on  her  temple  fix'd,  how  proud  was  thy  tread  ! 
Ah,  better  thou  ne'er  had'st  liv'd  that  summit  to  gain, 
Or  died  in  the  porch,  than  thus  dishonour  the  fane. 


SONG  OF  INNISFAIL. 
They  came  from  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 

And  now  o'er  the  western  main 
Set  sail,  in  their  good  ships,  gallantly, 

From  the  sunny  land  of  Spain. 
'•  Oh,  Where's  the  Isle  we've  seen  in  dreams, 

Our  destin'd  home  or  grave  ?"* 
Thus  sung  they  as,  by  the  morning's  beams, 

They  swept  the  Atlantic  wave. 

And,  lo,  where  afar  o'er  ocean  shines 

A  sparkle  of  radiant  green, 
As  though  in  that  deep  lay  emerald  mines, 

Whose  light  thro'  the  wave  was  seen. 
*'  'Tis  Innisfailf — 'tis  Innisfail  !  " 

Rings  o'er  the  echoing  sea  ; 
While,  bending  to  heav'n,  the  warriors  hail 

That  home  of  the  brave  and  free. 

*  "Milesius  remem'bered  the  remarkable  prediction  of  the 
principal  Druid,  who  foretold  that  the  posterity  of  Gadelus 
should  obtain  the  possession  of  a  Western  Island  (which  was 
Ireland),  and  there  inhabit."— Keating. 

t  The  Island  of  Destiny— one  of  the  ancient  names  of  Ireland. 


94        SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE  EVE. 

Then  turn'd  they  unto  the  Eastern  wave, 

Where  now  their  Day-God's  eye 
A  look  of  such  sunny  omen  gave 

As  lighted  up  sea  and  sky. 
Nor  frown  was  seen  through  sky  or  sea, 

Nor  tear  o'er  leaf  or  sod, 
When  first  on  their  Isle  of  Destiny 

Our  great  forefathers  trod. 


SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE  EVE. 

Time— The  Ninth  Century. 

To-MORROW,  comrade,  we 
On  the  battle-plain  must  be, 

There  to  conquer,  or  both  lie  low  I 
The  morning  star  is  up, 
But  there's  wine  still  in  the  cup, 

And  we'll  take  another  quaff,  ere  we  go,  boy,  go ; 

We'll  take  another  quaff,  ere  we  go. 

'Tis  true,  in  manliest  eyes 
A  passing  tear  will  rise, 

When  we  think  of  the  friends  we  leave  lone  ; 
But  what  can  wailing  do  ? 
See,  our  goblet's  weeping  too  ! 

With    its    tears    we'll    chase  away  our  own,  boy, 
our  own  ; 

W^ith  its  tears  we'll  chase  away  our  own. 

But  daylight's  stealing  on  — 
The  last  that  o'er  us  shone 

Saw  our  children  around  us  play  j 


OH,  THE  SIGHT  ENTRANCING.       95 

The  next — ah  1  where  shall  we 
And  those  rosy  urchins  be  ? 

But — no  matter — grasp  thy  sword  and  away  I 
boy,  away ; 

No  matter — grasp  thy  sword  and  away  ! 

Let  those  who  brook  the  chain 
Of  Saxon  or  of  Dane, 

Ignobly  by  their  fire-sides  stay  ; 
One  sigh  to  home  be  given, 
One  heartfelt  prayer  to  heaven. 

Then,    for   Erin   and   her    cause,    boy,    hurra  ! 
hurra  !  hurra  ! 

Then,  for  Erin  and  her  cause,  hurra  ! 


OH,  THE  SIGHT  EXTRAXCIXG. 

Oh,  the  sight  entrancing. 

When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files  arrayed 

"With  helm  and  blade, 
And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing  ! 
WTien  hearts  are  all  high  beating, 
And  the  trumpet's  voice  repeating 

That  song  whose  breath 

May  lead  to  death, 
But  never  to  retreating  ! 
Oh,  the  sight  entrancing, 
WTien  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files  arrayed 

With  helm  and  blade. 
And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing  ! 


96        FAIREST/  PUT  ON  A  WHILE, 

Yet  'tis  not  helm  or  feather — 
For  ask  yon  despot  whether 
His  plumed  bands 
Could  bring  such  hands 
And  hearts  as  ours  together. 
Leave  pomps  to  those  who  need  'em — 
Adorn  but  Man  with  Freedom, 
And  proud  he  braves 
The  gaudiest  slaves 
That  crawl  where  monarchs  lead  'em. 
The  sword  may  pierce  the  beaver, 
Stone  walls  in  time  may  sever  ; 
'Tis  heart  alone, 
Worth  steel  and  stone, 
That  keeps  men  free  for  ever  ! 
Oh,  that  sight  entrancing, 
When  morning's  beam  is  glancmg 
O'er  files  arrayed 
With  helm  and  blade, 
And  in  freedom's  cause  advancing  ! 


FAIREST  !  PUT  ON  AWHILE. 

Fairest  !  put  on  awhile 

These  pinions  of  light  I  bring  thee, 
And  o'er  thy  own  green  isle 

In  fancy  let  me  wing  thee. 
Never  did  Ariel's  plume, 

At  golden  sunset  hover 
O'er  such  scenes  of  bloom 

As  I  shall  waft  thee  over. 


FAIREST!  PUT  ON  A  WHILE.        97 

Fields,  where  the  Spring  delays, 

And  fearlessly  meets  the  ardour 
Of  the  warm  Summer's  gaze, 

With  but  her  tears  to  guard  her. 
Rocks,  through  myrtle  boughs, 

In  grace  majestic  frowning — 
Like  some  warrior's  brows 

That  Love  hath  just  been  crowning. 

Islets  so  freshly  fair 

That  never  hath  bird  come  nigh  them, 
But,  from  his  course  through  air, 

Hath  been  won  downward  by  them — 
Types,  sweet  maid,  of  thee, 

WTiose  look,  whose  blush  inviting, 
Never  did  Love  yet  see 

From  heaven,  without  alighting. 

Lakes  where  the  pearl  lies  hid, 

And  caves  where  the  diamond's  sleeping, 
Bright  as  the  gems  that  lid 

Of  thine  lets  fall  in  weeping. 
Glens,  where  Ocean  comes, 

To  'scape  the  wild  wind's  rancour, 
And  harbours,  worthiest  homes 

Where  Freedom's  sails  could  anchor, 

Then  if,  while  scenes  so  grand, 

So  beautiful,  shine  before  thee, 
Pride  for  thine  own  dear  land 

Should  haply  be  stealing  o'er  thee, 
Oh,  let  grief  come  first. 

O'er  pride  itself  victorious — 
To  think  how  man  hath  curst 

What  Heaven  had  made  so  glorious  ! 

356 


(^%  SHALL  THE  HARP  THEN  BE  SILENT? 

SHALL  THE  HARP  THEN  BE  SILENT? 
(to  the  memory  of  grattan.) 

Shall  the  harp  then  be  silent  when  he,  who  first  gave 
To  our  country  a  name,  is  withdrawn  from  all  eyes? 

Shall  a  minstrel  of  Erin  stand  mute  by  the  grave, 
WTiere  the  first,  where  the  last  of  her  patriots  lies  ? 

No — faint  though  the  death-song  may  fall  from  his  lips, 
Though  his  harp,  like  his  soul,  may  with  shadows  be 
crossed, 

Yet,  yet  shall  it  sound,  'mid  a  nation's  eclipse, 

And  proclaim  to  the  world  what  a  star  hath  been  lost  ? 

What  a  union  of  all  the  affections  and  powers, 
By  which  life  is  exalted,  embellished,  refined, 

Was  embraced  in  that  spirit,  whose  centre  was  ours, 
While  its  mighty  circumference  circled  mankind  ! 

Oh,  who  that  loves  Erin,  or  who  that  can  see, 

Through  the  waste  of  her  annals,  that  epoch  sublime — 

Like  a  pyramid  raised  in  the  desert — where  he 
And  his  glory  stand  out  to  the  eyes  of  all  time  ! — 

That  one  lucid  interval  snatched  from  the  gloom 
And  the  madness  of  ages,  when,  filled  with  his  soul, 

A  nation  o'erleaped  the  dark  bounds  of  her  doom. 
And,  for  one  sacred  instant,  touched  liberty's  goal  ! 

\\Tio,   that    ever   hath   heard   him — hath   drank    at   the 
source 

Of  that  wonderful  eloquence,  all  Erin's  own, 
In  whose  high-thoughted  daring,  the  fire,  and  the  force. 

And  the  yet  untamed  spring  of  her  spirit,  are  shown  ; 


SHALL  THE  HARP  THEN  BE  SLLENT?  go 

An  eloquence,  rich — wheresoever  its  wave 

Wandered  free  and  triumphant — with   thoughts    that 
shone  through 
As  clear  as  the  brook's  "  stone  of  lustre,"  and  gave, 

With  the  flash  of  the  gem,  its  solidity  too ; — 

Who,  that   ever  approached  him,  when,  free  from  the 
crowd, 
In  a  home  full  of  love,  he  delighted  to  tread 
'Mong  the  trees  which  a  nation  had  giv'n,  and   wliich 
bowed, 
As  if  each  brought  a  new  civic  crown  for  his  head, — 

That  home,  where — like  him  who,  as  fable  hath  told, 
Put  the  rays  from  his  brow,  that  his  child  might  come 
near — 

Every  glory  forgot,  the  most  wise  of  the  old 

Became  all  that  the  simplest  and  youngest  hold  dear  : — 

Is  there  one  who  has  thus,  through  his  orbit  of  life, 
But  at  distance  observed  him,  through  glory,  throui;V; 
blame. 

In  the  calm  of  retreat,  in  the  grandeur  of  strife, 

WTiether  shining  or  clouded,  still  high  and  the  same  ? 

Such  a  union  of  all  that  enriches  life's  hour. 

Of  the  sweetness  we  love  and  the  greatness  we  praise, 

As  that  type  of  simplicity  blended  with  power, 
A  child  with  a  thunderbolt,  only  portrays. — 

Oh  no — not  a  heart  that  e'er  knew  him  but  mourns, 
Deep,  deep,  o'er  the  grave  where  such  glory  is  shrined^ 

O'er  a  monument  Fame  will  preserve  'mong  the  urns 
Of  the  wisest,  the  bravest,  the  best  of  mankind  ! 


loo  THE  PARALLEL. 

THE  PARALLEL. 

Yes,  sad  one  of  Sion,* — if  closely  resembling, 
In  shame  and  in  sorrow,  thy  withered-iip  heart — 

If  drinking,  deep,  deep,  of  the  same  "cup  of  trembling 
Could  make  us  thy  children,  our  parent  thou  art. 

Like  thee  doth  our  nation  lie  conquered  and  broken, 
And  fallen  from  her  head  is  the  once  royal  crown  ; 

In  her  streets,  in  her  halls,  Desolation  hath  spoken. 
And  "  while  it  is  day  yet,  her  sun  hath  gone  down." 

Like  thine  doth  her  exile,  'mid  dreams  of  returning. 
Die  far  from  the  home  it  were  life  to  behold  ; 

Like  thine  do  her  sons,  in  the  day  of  their  mourning, 
Remember  the  bright  things  that  bless'd  them  of  old 


Ah,  well  may  we  call  her,  like  thee,  "  the  Forsaken," 
Her  boldest  are  vanquished,  her  proudest  are  slaves  ; 

And  the  harps  of  her  minstrels,  when  gayest  they  waken, 
Have  breathings  as  sad  as  the  wind  over  graves  ! 

Yet    hadst    thou    thy   vengeance— yet   came    there    the 
morrow, 

That  shines  out  at  last  on  the  longest  dark  night, 
When  the  sceptre  that  smote  thee  with  slavery  and  sorrow 

Was  shivered  at  once,  like  a  reed,  in  thy  sight. 

When  that  cup,  which  for  others  the  proud  Golden  City 
Had  brimmed  full  of  bitterness,  drenched  her  own  lips, 

And  the  world  she  had  trampled  on  heard,  without  pity, 
The  howl  in  her  halls  and  the  cry  from  her  ships. 

*  These  verses  were  written  after  the  perusal  of  a  treatise  by 
Mr.  Hamilton,  professing  to  prove  that  the  Irisli  were  originally 
Jews. 


OH  FOR  THE  SWORDS.  loi 

\Vhen  the  curse  Heaven  keeps  for  the  haughty  came  over 
Her  merchants  rapacious,  her  rulers  unjust, 

And — a  ruin,  at  last,  for  the  earth-worm  to  cover — 
The  Lady  of  Kingdoms  lay  low  in  the  dust. 


OH  FOR  THE  SWORDS  OF  FORMER  TIME  ! 

Oh  for  the  swords  of  former  time  ! 

Oh  for  the  men  who  bore  them, 
When,  armed  for  Right,  they  stood  sublime, 

And  tyrants  crouched  before  them  ! 
When  pure  yet,  ere  courts  began 

With  honours  to  enslave  him, 
The  best  honours  worn  by  Man 

Were  those  which  Virtue  gave  him. 
Oh  for  the  swords  of  former  time  ! 

Oh  for  the  men  who  bore  them, 
When,  armed  for  Right,  they  stood  sublime, 

And  tyrants  crouched  before  them  ! 

Oh  for  the  kings  who  flourished  then  ! 

Oh  for  the  pomp  that  crowned  them, 
\M.en  hearts  and  hands  of  freeborn  men 

Were  all  the  ramparts  round  them  ! 
WTien,  safe  built  on  bosoms  true, 

The  throne  was  but  the  centre 
Round  which  Love  a  circle  drew. 

That  Treason  durst  not  enter. 
Oh  for  the  kings  who  flourished  then  ! 

Oh  for  the  pomp  that  crowned  them. 
When  hearts  and  hands  of  freeborn  men 

Were  all  the  ramparts  round  them  i 


I02  AfV  GENTLE  HARP, 

MY  GENTLE  HARP. 

My  gentle  Harp  !  once  more  I  waken 

The  sweetness  of  thy  slumbering  strain  j 
In  tears  our  last  farewell  was  taken, 

And  now  in  tears  we  meet  again. 
No  light  of  joy  hath  o'er  thee  broken, 

But — like  those  harps  whose  heavenly  skill 
Of  slavery,  dark  as  thine,  hath  spoken — 

Thou  hang'st  upon  the  willows  still. 

And  yet,  since  last  thy  chord  resounded, 

An  hour  of  peace  and  triumph  came, 
And  many  an  ardent  bosom  bounded 

With  hopes — that  now  are  turned  to  shame. 
Yet  even  then,  while  Peace  was  singing 

Pier  halcyon  song  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Though  joy  and  hope  to  others  bringing, 

She  only  brought  new  tears  to  thee» 

Then  who  can  ask  for  notes  of  pleasure. 

My  drooping  harp  !  from  chords  like  thine? 
Alas,  the  lark's  gay  morning  measure 

As  ill  would  suit  the  swan's  decline  ! 
Or  how  shall  I,  who  love,  who  bless  thee, 

Invoke  thy  breath  for  freedom's  strains. 
When  even  the  wreaths  in  which  I  dress  thee 

Are  sadly  mixed — half  flowers,  half  chains  ! 

But  come — if  yet  thy  frame  can  borrow 

One  breath  of  joy — oh,  breathe  for  me. 
And  show  the  world,  in  chains  and  sorrow. 

How  sweet  thy  music  still  can  be  ; 
Plow  gaily,  even  'mid  gloom  surrounding, 

Thou  yet  canst  wake  at  pleasure's  thrill — 
Like  Memnon's  broken  image,  sounding 

'Mid  desolation,  tuneful  still  ! 


FORGET  NOT  THE  FIELD.  103 

REMEMBER  THEE  ! 

Remember  thee  !  yes,  while  there's  life  in  this  heart, 
It  shall  never  forget  thee,  all  lorn  as  thou  art ; 
More  clear  in  thy  sorrow,  thy  gloom,  and  thy  showers, 
Than  the  rest  of  the  world  in  their  sunniest  hours. 

Wert  thou  all  that  I   wish   thee, — great,   glorious,  and 

free — 
First  flower  of  the  earth,  and  first  gem  of  the  sea, — 
I  might  hail  thee  with  prouder,  with  happier  brow, 
But,  oh  !  could  I  love  thee  more  deeply  than  now? 

No,  thy  chains  as  they  rankle,  thy  blood  as  it  runs, 
But  make  thee  more  painfully  dear  to  thy  sons — 
\Vhose  hearts,  like  the  young  of  the  desert-bird's  nest, 
Drink  love  in  each  life-drop  that  flows  from  thy  breast ! 


FORGET  NOT  THE  FIELD. 

Forget  not  the  field  where  they  perished, 

The  truest,  and  last  of  the  brave. 
All  gone — and  the  bright  hope  they  cherished 

Gone  with  them,  and  quenched  in  their  grave. 

Oh  !  could  we  from  death  but  recover 
Those  hearts,  as  they  bounded  before, 

In  the  face  of  high  Heaven  to  fight  over 
That  combat  for  freedom  once  more  ; — 

Could  the  chain  for  an  instant  be  riven 
Which  Tyranny  flung  round  us  then, 

Oh  !  'tis  not  in  Man  nor  in  Heaven 
To  let  Tyranny  bind  it  again  ! 


I04  JOHN  BULL  TO  ERIN. 

But  'tis  past— and  though  blazoned  in  story 
The  name  of  our  Victor  may  be, 

Accursed  is  the  march  of  that  glory 

Which  treads  o'er  the  hearts  of  the  free. 

Far  dearer  the  grave  or  the  prison, 
Illumed  by  one  patriot  name, 

Than  the  trophies  of  all  who  have  risen 
On  liberty's  ruins  to  fame  ! 


The  forcgoniii  Foenis  in  this  section  are  from  the  Irish 
MeloJies. 


JOHN  BULL  TO  ERIN. 

Dublin,  March  12th,  1827.—"  Friday,  after  the  arrival  of  the 
paclvet  bringing  the  account  of  the  defeat  of  the  Catholic 
question  in  the  House  of  Commons,  orders  were  sent  to  the 
Pigeon  House  to  forward  5,000,000  rounds  of  musket-ball 
cartridges  to  the  different  garrisons  round  the  countiy." — 
Freeman's  Journal. 

I  HAVE  found  out  a  gift  for  my  Erin, 
A  gift  that  will  surely  content  her  ; 

Sweet  pledge  of  a  love  so  endearing  ! 
Five  millions  of  bullets  I've  sent  her. 

She  asked  me  for  Freedom  and  Right, 

But  ill  she  her  wants  understood  ; 
Ball  cartridges  morning  and  night, 

Are  a  dose  that  will  do  her  more  good. 

There  is  hardly  a  day  of  our  lives 
But  we  read,  in  some  amiable  trials, 

How  husbands  make  love  to  their  wives 
Through  the  medium  of  hemp  and  of  jihiais. 


JOHN  BULL  TO  ERIN.  105 

Ojie  thinks  with  his  mistress  or  mate, 

A  good  halter  is  sure  to  agree — 
That  love-knot  which,  early  and  late, 

I  have  tried,  my  dear  Erin,  on  thee. 

While  another^  whom  Hymen  has  bless'd 
With  a  wife  that  is  not  over  placid, 

Consigns  the  dear  charmer  to  rest 
With  a  dose  of  the  best  prussic  acid. 

Thus,  Erin,  my  love  do  I  show — 
Thus  quiet  thee,  mate  of  my  bed  ! 

And,  as  poison  and  hemp  are  too  slow, 
Do  thy  business  with  bullets  instead. 

Should  thy  faith  in  my  medicine  be  shaken, 
Ask  Roden,  that  mildest  of  saints  ; 

He'll  tell  thee  lead,  inwardly  taken. 
Alone  can  remove  thy  complaints  ;  — 

That  blest  as  thou  art  in  thy  lot, 

Nothing's  wanted  to  make  it  more  pleasant. 
But  being  hanged,  tortured,  and  shot. 

Much  oftener  than  thou  art  at  present. 

Even  Wellington's  self  has  averr'd 

Thou  art  yet  but  half  sabred  and  hung. 

And  I  lov'd  him  the  more  when  I  heard 
Such  tenderness  fall  from  his  tongue. 

So  take  the  five  millions  of  pills. 
Dear  partner,  I  herewith  enclose  ; 

'Tis  the  cure  that  all  quacks  for  thy  ills 
From  Cromwell  to  Eldon  propose. 


io6         WHERE  SHALL   WE  BURY. 

And  you,  ye  brave  bullets  that  go, 
How  I  wish  that  before  ye  set  out, 

The  Devil  of  the  Freischutz  could  know 
The  good  work  you  are  going  about. 

For  he'd  charm  ye,  in  spite  of  your  lead, 

Into  such  supernatural  wit, 
That  you'd  all  of  you  know,  as  you  sped, 

\Vhere  a  bullet  of  sense  ought  to  hit. 

FROM  LIFE  WITHOUT  FREEDOM. 

From  life  without  freedom,  oh,  who  would  not  fly  ? 
For  one  day  of  freedom,  oh  !  who  would  not  die? 
Hark  !  hark  !  'tis  the  trumpet  !  the  call  of  the  brave, 
The  death-song  of  tyrants,  and  dirge  of  the  slave. 
Our  country  lies  bleeding — oh,  fly  to  her  aid  ; 
One  arm  that  defends  is  worth  hosts  that  invade. 

In  death's  kindly  bosom  our  last  hope  remains— 
The  dead  fear  no  tyrants,  the  grave  has  no  chains. 
On,  on  to  the  combat  ;  the  heroes  that  bleed 
For  virtue  and  mankind  are  heroes  indeed. 
And  oh,  even  if  freedom  from  this  world  be  driven, 
Despair  not — at  least  we  shall  find  her  in  heaven. 


WHERE  SHALL  WE  BURY  OUR  SHAME? 

Where  shall  we  bury  our  shame  ? 

Where,  in  what  desolate  place, 
Hide  the  last  wreck  of  a  name, 

Broken  and  stain'd  by  disgrace  ? 


PEACE  TO   THE  SLUMBERERS.    107 

Death  may  dissever  the  chain, 

Oppression  will  cease  when  we're  gone ; 

Bui  the  dishonour,  the  stain, 
Die  as  we  may,  will  live  on. 

Was  it  for  this  we  sent  out 

Liberty's  cry  from  our  shore  ? 
Was  it  for  this  that  her  shout 

Thrill'd  to  the  world's  very  core  ? 
Thus  to  live  cowards  and  slaves, 

Oh  !  ye  free  hearts  that  lie  dead  ! 
Do  you  not  e'en  in  your  grave 

Shudder  as  o'er  you  we  tread. 


PEACE  TO  THE  SLUMBERERS! 

Peace  to  the  slumberers  ! 

They  lie  on  the  battle  plain, 
With  no  shroud  to  cover  them  ; 

The  dew  and  the  summer  rain 
Are  all  that  weep  over  them. 

Vain  was  their  bravery  ! 

The  fallen  oak  lies  where  it  lay. 
Across  the  wintry  river  ; 

But  brave  hearts,  once  swept  away. 
Are  gone,  alas  !  for  ever. 

Woe  to  the  conqueror  I 

Our  limbs  shall  lie  as  cold  as  theirs 
Of  whom  his  sword  bereft  us 

Ere  we  forget  the  deep  arrears 
Of  vengeance  they  have  left  us  ! 


lo8  A  REBEL'S  EPISTLE. 

A  REBEL'S  EPISTLE. 
{From  "  The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris.'') 

THELIM   O'CONNOE.   TO   . 

•'Return  !" — no,  never,  while  the  withering  hand 
Of  bigot  power  is  on  that  hapless  land  ; 
While  for  the  faith  my  fathers  held  to  God. 
Even  in  the  fields  where  free  those  fathers  trod, 
I  am  proscribed,  and — like  the  spot  left  bare 
In  Israel's  halls,  to  tell  the  proud  and  fair 
Amidst  their  mirth  that  slavery  had  been  there — 
On  all  I  love, — home,  parents,  friends, — I  trace 
The  mournful  mark  of  bondage  and  disgrace  ! 
No  ! — let  t/iem  stay,  who  in  their  country's  pangs 
See  nought  but  food  for  factions  and  harangues  ; 
Who  yearly  kneel  before  their  masters'  doors. 
And  hawk  their  wrongs  as  beggars  do  their  sores ; 
Still  let  your         ..... 

Sti'l  hope  and  suffer,  all  who  can  ! — but  I, 
Who  durst  not  hope,  and  cannot  bear,  must  fly. 

But  whither  ? — everywhere  the  scourge  pursues — 
Turn  where  he  will,  the  wretched  wanderer  views, 
In  the  bright,  broken  hopes  of  all  his  race, 
Countless  reflections  of  the  oppressor's  face  ! 
Everywhere  gallant  hearts,  and  spirits  true, 
Are  served  up  victims  to  the  vile  and  few ; 
While  England,  everywhere— the  general  foe 
Of  truth  and  freedom,  wheresoe'er  they  glow — 
Is  first,  when  tyrants  strike,  to  aid  the  blow ! 

O  England  !  could  such  poor  revenge  atone 

For  wrongs  that  well  might  claim  the  deadliest  one  ; 

Were  it  a  vengeance,  sweet  enough  to  sate 

The  wretch  who  flies  from  thy  intolerant  hate, 


A  REBEL'S  EPISTLE.  109 

To  hear  his  curses,  on  such  barbarous  sway, 

Echoed  where'er  he  bends  his  cheerless  way  ; — 

Could  this  content  him,  every  lip  he  meets 

Teems  for  his  vengeance  with  such  poisonous  sweets ; 

Were  ihts  his  luxury,  never  is  thy  name 

Pronounced,  but  he  doth  banquet  on  thy  shame  ; 

Hears  maledictions  ring  from  every  side 

Upon  that  grasping  power,  that  selfish  pride, 

Which  vaunts  its  own,  and  scorns  all  rights  beside  ; 

That  low  and  desperate  en\'y  which,  to  blast 

A  neighbour's  blessings,  risks  the  few  thou  hast  ; — 

That  monster,  self,  too  gross  to  be  concealed, 

WTiich  ever  lurks  behind  thy  proffered  shield ; 

That  faithless  craft,  which,  in  thy  hour  of  need, 

Can  court  the  slave,  can  swear  he  shall  be  freed, 

Yet  basely  spurns  him,  when  thy  point  is  gained, 

Back  to  his  masters,  ready  gagged  and  chained  ! 

Worthy  associate  of  that  band  of  kings, 

That  royal,  ravening  flock,  whose  vampire  wings 

O'er  sleeping  Europe  treacherously  brood. 

And  fan  her  into  dreams  of  promised  good. 

Of  hope,  of  freedom — but  to  drain  her  blood  ! 

li  thits  to  hear  thee  branded  be  a  bliss  [this, — 

That   vengeance   loves,    there's  yet  more  sweet   than 

That  'twas  an  Irish  head,  an  Irish  heart. 

Made  thee  the  fallen  and  tarnished  thing  thou  art  ; 

That,  as  the  Centaur  gave  the  infected  vest. 

In  which  he  died,  to  rack  his  conqueror's  breast. 

We  sent  thee  Castlereagh  ;  as  heaps  of  dead 

Have  slain  their  slayers  by  the  pest  they  spread. 

So  hath  our  land  breathed  out — thy  fame  to  dim, 

Thy  strength  to  waste,  and  rot  thee,  soul  and  limb  — 

Her  worst  infections  all  condensed  in  him  ! 

When  will  the  world  shake  off  such  yokes  !  oh,  when 
Will  that  redeeming  day  shine  out  on  men. 


[o  A  REBEL'S  EPISTLE. 

That  shall  behold  them  rise,  erect  and  free 
As  Heaven  and  Nature  meant  mankind  should  1  e  ! 
When  reason  shall  no  longer  blindly  bow 
To  the  vile  pagod  things,  that  o'er  her  brow, 
Like  him  of  Jaghernaut,  drive  trampling  now  ; 
Nor  Conquest  dare  to  desolate  God's  earth  ; 
Nor  drunken  Victory,  with  a  Nero's  mirth, 
Strike  her  lewd  harp  amidst  a  people's  groans  ; — 
But,  built  on  love,  the  world's  exalted  thrones 
Shall  to  the  virtuous  and  the  wise  be  given — 
Those  bright,  those  sole  legitimates  of  Heaven  ! 

When  will  this  be  ? — or,  oh  !  is  it  in  truth. 

But  one  of  those  sweet  day-break  dreams  of  youth, 

In  which  the  Soul,  as  round  her  morning  springs, 

'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  sees  such  dazzling  things  ! 

And  must  the  hope,  as  vain  as  it  is  bright. 

Be  all  given  up  ? — and  are  they  only  right, 

Who  say  this  world  of  thinking  souls  was  made 

To  be  thy  kings  partitioned,  trucked,  and  weighed 

In  scales  that,  ever  since  the  world  begun, 

Have  counted  millions  but  as  dust  to  one  ? 

Are  they  the  only  wise,  who  laugh  to  scorn 

The  rights,  the  freedom  to  which  man  was  born  ; 

Who 

Who,  proud  to  kiss  each  separate  rod  of  power. 
Bless,  while  he  reigns,  the  minion  of  the  hour  ; 
Worship  each  would-be  God,  that  o'er  them  moves, 
And  take  the  thundering  of  his  brass  for  Jove's  ! 
\{  this  be  wisdom,  then  farewell,  my  books, 
Farewell,  ye  shrines  of  old,  ye  classic  brooks, 
Which  fed  my  soul  with  currents,  pure  and  fair, 
Of  living  truth,  that  now  must  stagnate  there  ! — 
Instead  of  themes  that  touch  the  lyre  with  liglU, 
Instead  of  Greece,  and  her  immortal  fight 


"/F"  AhD  ''PERHAPS^  ITT 

For  Liberty,  which  once  awaked  my  strings, 
Welcome  the  Grand  Conspiracy  of  Kings, 
The  High  Legitimates,  the  Holy  Band, 
WTio,  bolder  even  than  he  of  Sparta's  land, 
Against  whole  millions,  panting  to  be  free, 
Would  guard  the  pass  of  right-line  tyranny  ! 
Instead  of  him,  the  Athenian  bard,  whose  blade 
Had  stood  the  onset  which  his  pen  portrayed. 
Welcome     ..... 

And,  'stead  of  Aristides — woe  the  day 

Such  names  should  mingle  ! — welcome  Castlereagh  ! 

"IF"  AND  "PERHAPS." 

Oh  tidings  of  freedom  !  oh  accents  of  hope  ! 

Waft,  waft  them,  ye  zephyrs,  to  Erin's  blue  sea, 
And  refresh  with  their  sounds  every  son  of  the  Pope, 

From  Dingle-a-cooch  to  far  Donaghadee. 

"  If  mutely  the  slave  will  endure  and  obey, 

Nor  clanking  his  fetters,  nor  breathing  his  pains, 

His  masters,  perhaps,  at  some  far  distant  day, 

May  think  (tender  tyrants  !)  of  loosening  his  chains." 

Wise  "if"  and    "perhaps!" — precious   salve   for    our 
wounds, 

If  he,  who  would  rule  thus  o'er  manacled  mutes. 
Could  check  the  free  spring-tide  of  mind,  that  resounds, 

Even  now,  at  his  feet,  like  the  sea  at  Canute's. 

But  no,  'tis  in  vain — the  grand  impulse  is  given — 

Man  knows  his  high  Charter,  and  knowing  will  claim  ; 

And  if  ruin  tnust  follow  where  fetters  are  riven, 

Be  theirs,  who  have  forg'd  them,  the  guilt   and   the 
shame. 


112         "//^"  AND  ''perhaps:' 

"  Tf  the  slave  will  be  silent  !  "—vain  Soldier,  beware — 
There  is  a  dead  silence  the  wrong'd  may  assume, 

When  the  feeling,  sent  back  from  the  lips  in  despair, 
But  clings  round  the  heart  with  a  deadlier  gloom  ; 

When   the   blush,   that  long   burn'd  on    the  suppliant's 
cheek, 
Gives  place  to  the  avenger's  pale,  resolute  hue  ; 
And    the   tongue,    that    once   threaten'd,    disdaining   to 
speak, 
Consigns  to  the  arm  the  high  office — to  do, 

7/"men,  in  that  silence,  should  think  of  the  hour, 
When  proudly  their  fathers  in  panoply  stood. 

Presenting,  alike,  a  bold  front-work  of  power 
To  the  despot  on  land  and  the  foe  on  the  flood  : 

That  hour,  when  a  Voice  had  come  forth  from  the  West, 
To  the  slave  bringing  hopes,  to  the  tyrant  alarms  ; 

And  a  lesson,  long  look'd  for,  was  taught  the  opprest, 
That  kings  are  as  dust  before  freemen  in  arms  ! 

If,  avvfuller  still,  the  mute  slave  should  recall 

That  dream  of  his  boyhood,  when  Freedom's  sweet  day 

At  length  seem'd  to  break  through  a  long  night  of  thrall, 
And  Union  and  Hope  went  abroad  in  its  ray ; 

7/" fancy  should  tell  him,  that  Dayspring  of  Good, 
Though  swiftly  its  light  died  away  from  his  chain, 

Though  darkly  it  set  in  a  nation's  best  blood. 
Now  wants  but  invoking  to  shine  out  again ; 

If— if,  I  say — breathings  like  these  should  come  o'er 
The  chords  of  remembrance,  and  thrill,  as  they  come, 

Then,  pe;  Imps — ay,  perhaps — but  I  dare  not  say  more  ; 
Thou  hast  will'd  that  thy  slaves  should  be  mute — I  am 
dumb. 


Convivnal- 


357 


CONVIVIAL. 


OH !  THINK  NOT  MY  SPIRITS   ARE   ALWAYS 
AS  LIGHT. 

Oh  !  think  not  my  spirits  are  always  as  light. 

And  as  free  from  a  pang  as  they  seem  to  you  now  ; 
Nor  expect  that  the  heart-beaming  smile  of  to-night 

Will  return  with  to-morrow  to  brighten  my  brow. 
No,  life  is  a  waste  of  wearisome  hours, 

Which  seldom  the  rose  of  enjoyment  adorns  : 
And  the  heart,  that  is  soonest  awake  to  the  flow'rs, 

Is  always  the  first  to  be  touch'd  by  the  thorns  ! 
But  send  round  the  bowl,  and  be  happy  awhile  ; 

May  we  never  meet  worse  in  our  pilgrimage  here, 
Than  the  tear  that  enjoyment  can  gild  with  a  smile, 

And  the  smile  that  compassion  can  turn  to  a  tear. 

The  thread  of  our  life  would  be  dark,  heaven  knows  ! 

If  it  were  not  with  friendship  and  love  intertwin'd  ; 
And  I  care  not  how  soon  I  may  sink  to  repose, 

When  these  blessings  shall  cease  to  be   dear  to   my 
mind ; 
But  they  who  have  loved,  the  fondest,  the  purest. 

Too  often  have  wept  o'er  the  dream  they  believ'd ; 
And  the  heart,  that  has  slumber'd  in  friendship  secure  t. 

Is  happy  indeed,  if  'twas  never  deceiv'd. 
But  send  round  the  bowl,  while  a  relic  of  truth 

Is  in  man  or  in  woman,  this  pray'r  shall  be  mine  : 
-That  the  sunshine  of  love  may  illumine  our  youth. 

And  the  moonlight  of  friendship  console  our  decline. 


ii6  DRINK  TO  HER. 

COME,  SEND  ROUND  THE  WINE. 

Come,  send  round  the  wine,  and  leave  points  of  belief 

To  simpleton  sages,  and  reasoning  fools  ; 
This  moment's  a  flower  too  fair  and  brief, 

To  be  wither'd  and  stain'd  by  the  dust  of  the  schools. 
Your  glass  may  be  purple,  and  mine  may  be  blue, 

But  while  they  are  fiU'd  from  the  same  bright  bowl, 
The  fool  that  would  quarrel  for  difference  of  hue 

Deserves  not  the  comfort  they  shed  o'er  the  soul. 

Shall  I  ask  the  brave  soldier  who  fights  by  my  side 

In  the  cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds  agree? 
Shall  I  give  up  the  friend  I  have  valued  and  tried, 

If  he  kneel  not  before  the  same  altar  with  me? 
From  the  heretic  girl  of  my  soul  should  I  fly 

To  seek  somewhere  else  a  more  orthodox  kiss  ? 
No,  perish  the  hearts,  and  the  laws  that  try 

Truth,  valour,  or  love,  by  a  standard  like  this  ! 

DRINK  TO  HER. 

Drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  wak'd  the  poet's  sigh. 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 
Oh  !  woman's  heart  was  made 

For  minstrel  hands  alone, 
By  other  fingers  play'd, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 
Then  here's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  wak'd  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 


NAY,   TELL  ME  NOT,  DEAR.        117 

At  Beauty's  door  of  glass 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood, 
They  asked  her,  "  which  might  pass?  " 

She  answer'd  "  he  who  could." 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 

To  pass — but  'tw^ould  not  do  : 
While  Wit  a  diamond  brought, 

And  cut  his  bright  way  through. 
So  here's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  wak'd  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

Where  wealth  and  grandeur  shines, 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold  mines. 
But  oh  !  the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere  ; 
Its  native  home's  above, 

Tho'  woman  keeps  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  wak'd  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 


NAY,  TELL  ME  NOT,  DEAR. 

Nay,  tell  me  not,  dear,  that  the  goblet  drowns 

One  charm  of  feeling,  one  fond  regret  ; 
Believe  me,  a  few  of  thy  angry  frowns 
Are  all  I've  sunk  in  its  bright  waves  yet 
Ne'er  hath  a  beam 
Been  lost  in  the  stream. 


Ii8    THIS  LIFE  IS  ALL  CHEQUERED. 

That  ever  was  shed  from  thy  form  or  soul ; 
The  balm  of  thy  sighs, 
The  spell  of  thine  eyes, 
Still  float  on  the  surface,  and  hallow  my  bowl  ! 
Then  fancy  not,  dearest  !  that  wine  can  steal 

One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me  ; 
Like  founts,  that  awaken  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 
The  bowl  that  brightens  my  love  for  thee  ! 

They  tell  us  that  Love  in  his  fairy  bower, 

Had  two  blush-roses,  of  birth  divine  ; 
He  sprinkled  the  one  with  the  rainbow's  shower, 
But  bath'd  the  other  with  mantling  wine. 
Soon  did  the  buds 
That  drank  of  the  floods, 
Distill'd  by  the  rainbow,  decline  and  fade  ; 
While  those  which  the  tide 
Of  ruby  had  dy'd, 
All  blush' d  into  beauty,  like  thee,  sweet  maid  ! 
Then  fancy  not,  dearest  !  that  wine  can  steal 

One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me  ; 

Like  founts,  that  awaken  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 

The  bowl  but  brightens  my  love  for  thee. 


THIS  LIFE  IS  ALL  CHEQUER'D  WITH 
PLEASURES  AND  WOES. 

This  life  is  all  chequer'd  with  pleasures  and  woes, 
That  chase  one  another  like  waves  of  the  deep  ; 

Each  billow  as  brightly  or  darkly  it  flows, 
Reflecting  our  eyes,  as  they  sparkle  or  weep. 

So  closely  our  whims  on  our  miseries  tread. 

That  the  laugh  is  called  up  ere  the  tear  can  be  dried 


ONE  B  UMPER  AT  PAR  TING.        1 1 9 

And  as  fast  as  the  raindrop  of  pity  is  shed, 
The  goose-feathers  of  Folly  can  turn  it  aside. 

But  pledge  me  the  cup,  if  existence  would  cloy, 
With  hearts  ever  happy,  and  heads  ever  wise. 

Be  ours  the  light  Grief  that  is  sister  to  joy, 

And  the  short  brilliant  Folly  that  flashes  and  dies  ! 

When  Hylas  was  sent  with  his  urn  to  the  fount, 

Thro'  fields  full  of  sunshine,  with  heart  full  of  play, 
Light  rambled  the  boy  over  meadow  and  mount, 

And  neglected  his  task  for  the  flowers  on  the  way. 
Thus  some  who  like  me,  should  have  drawn  and  have 
tasted 

The  fountain  that  runs  by  philosophy's  shrine. 
Their  time  with  the  flowers  on  the  margin  have  wasted, 

And  left  their  light  urns  all  as  empty  as  mine  ! 
But  pledge  me  the  goblet — while  Idleness  weaves 

Her  flowerets  together,  if  Wisdom  can  see 
One  bright  drop  or  two  that  has  fall'n  on  the  leaves 

From  the  fountain  divine,  'tis  sufficient  for  me  ! 


0^■E  BUMPER  AT  PARTING. 
One  bumper  at  parting — though  many 

Have  circled  the  board  since  we  met, 
The  fullest,  the  saddest  of  any, 

Remains  to  be  crown'd  by  us  yet. 
The  sweetness  that  pleasure  has  in 

Is  always  so  slow  to  come  forth. 
That  seldom,  alas^  till  the  minute 

It  dies,  do  we  know  half  its  worth  ! 
But  come,  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up  ; 
They're  born  on  the  bosom  of  pleasure, 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 


:20  THE  LEGACY, 

As  onward  we  journey,  how  pleasant 

To  pause  and  inhabit  awhile 
Those  few  sunny  spots,  like  the  present, 

That  'mid  the  dull  wilderness  smile  ! 
But  Time,  like  a  pitiless  master, 

Cries  "  Onward  !  "  and  spurs  the  gay  hours- 
Ah  !  never  does  Time  travel  faster, 

Than  when  his  way  lies  among  flow'rs. 
But  come,  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up  ; 
They're  born  on  the  bosom  of  pleasure, 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

How  brilliant  the  sun  look'd  in  sinking  ! 

The  waters  beneath  him  how  bright  ! 
Oh  !  trust  me,  the  farewell  of  drinking 

Should  be  like  the  farewell  of  light. 
You  saw  how  he  finish'd,  by  darting 

His  beam  o'er  a  deep  billow's  brim — 
So  fill  up,  let's  shine  at  our  parting, 

In  full  liquid  glory,  like  him. 
And  oh  !  may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Of  moments  like  this  be  made  up  ! 
'Twas  born  on  the  bosom  of  pleasure, 

It  dies  'mid  the  tears  of  the  cup  ! 

THE  LEGACY. 

When  in  death  I  shall  calm  recline, 
O  bear  my  heart  to  my  mistress  dear; 

Tell  her,  it  liv'd  upon  smiles  and  wine 

Of  tlie  brightest  hue,  while  it  linger'd  here  ; 


IVE  ATAYEOAM  THRO'  THIS  WO RLD.  \2i 

Bid  her  not  shed  one  tear  of  sorrow, 
To  sully  a  heart  so  brilliant  and  light  ; 

But  balmy  drops  of  the  red  grape  borrow, 
To  bathe  the  relic  from  morn  till  night. 

When  the  light  of  my  song  is  o'er, 

Then  take  my  harp  to  your  ancient  hall ; 
Hang  it  up  at  the  friendly  door, 

Where  weary  travellers  love  to  call. 
Then  if  some  bard,  -who  roams  forsaken, 

Revive  its  soft  note  in  passing  along, 
Oh  !  let  one  thought  of  its  master  waken 

Your  warmest  smile  for  the  child  of  song. 

Keep  this  cup,  which  is  now  o'erflowing, 

To  grace  your  revel  when  I'm  at  rest ; 
Never,  oh  !  never  its  balm  bestowing 

On  lips  that  beauty  hath  seldom  blest. 
But  when  some  warm  devoted  lover, 

To  her  he  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim, 
Then,  then  around  my  spirit  shall  hover. 

And  hallow  each  drop  that  foams  for  him. 


WE  MAY  ROAM  THRO'  THIS  WORLD. 

We  may  roam  thro'  this  world,  like  a  child  at  a  feast. 

Who  but  sips  of  a  sweet,  and  then  flies  to  the  rest ; 
And,  when  pleasure  begins  to  grow  dull  in  the  east. 

We  may  order  our  wings,  and  be  off  to  the  west ; 
But  if  hearts  that  feel,  and  eyes  that  smile. 

Are  the  dearest  gifts  that  Heaven  supplies, 
We  never  need  leave  our  native  isle, 

For  sensitive  hearts,  and  for  sun-bright  eyes. 


122  JVE  MA  YROAM  THRO'  THIS  WORLD. 

Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crown'd, 

Thro'  this  world,   whether  eastward  or  westward  you 
roam. 

When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 
Oh  !  remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  home. 


In  England,  the  garden  of  beauty  is  kept 

By  a  dragon  of  prudery,  plac'd  within  call ; 
But  so  oft  this  unamiable  dragon  has  slept, 

That  the  garden's  but  carelessly  watch'd  after  all. 
Oh  !  they  want  the  wild,  sweet -briery  fence 

Which  round  the  flowers  of  Eiin  dwells ; 
Which  warms  the  touch,  while  winning  the  sense. 

Nor  charms  us  least  when  it  most  repels. 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crown'd. 

Thro'  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you 
roam, 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh  !  remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  home. 

In  France,  when  the  heart  of  a  woman  sets  sail 

On  the  ocean  of  wedlock  its  fortune  to  try, 
Love  seldom  goes  far  in  a  vessel  so  frail. 

But  just  pilots  her  off,  and  then  bids  her  good-bye. 
While  the  daughters  of  Erin  keep  the  boy, 

Ever  smiling  beside  his  faithful  oar, 
Through  billows  of  woe  and  beams  of  joy. 

The  same  as  he  look'd  when  he  left  the  shore. 
Then  remember,  wherever  the  goblet  is  crown'd, 

Thro'  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you 
roam. 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh  !  remember  the  smiles  that  adorn  her  at  home. 


AND  DOTH  NOT  A  MEETING.      123 

AND  DOTH  NOT  A  MEETING  LIKE  THIS. 

And  doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends 

For  all  the  long  years  I've  been  wandering  away  ? 
To  see  thus  around  me  my  youth's  early  friends, 

As  smiling  and  kind  as  in  that  happy  day  ! 
Though  haply  o'er  some  of  your  brows,  as  o'er  mine. 

The  snowfall  of  Time  may  be  stealing — -what  then  ? 
IJke  Alps  in  the  sunset,  thus  lighted  by  wine, 

Well  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  youth's  roses  again. 

What  softened  remembrances  come  o'er  the  heart, 

In  gazing  on  those  we've  been  lost  to  so  long  ! 
The  sorrows,  the  joys,  of  which  once  they  were  part, 

Still  round  them,  like  visions  of  yesterday,  throng. 
As  letters  some  hand  hath  invisibly  traced, 

When  held  to  the  flame  will  steal  out  on  the  sight, 
So  many  a  feeling,  that  long  seemed  effaced, 

The  warmth  of  a  meeting  like  this  brings  to  light. 

And  thus,  as  in  Memory's  bark  we  shall  glide 

To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew — 
Though  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the  tide, 

The  wreck  of  full  many  a  hope  shining  through — 
Yet  still,  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flowers, 

That  once  made  a  garden  of  all  the  gay  shore. 
Deceived  for  a  moment,  we'll  think  them  still  ours, 

And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  Life's  morning  once 
more. 

So  brief  our  existence,  a  glimpse,  at  the  most, 

Is  all  we  can  have  of  the  few  we  hold  dear  ; 
And  oft  even  joy  is  unheeded  and  lost. 

For  want  of  some  heart,  that  could  echo  it  near. 
Ah,  well  may  we  hope,  when  this  short  life  is  gone, 

To  meet  in  some  world  of  more  permanent  bliss  ; 
For  a  smile,  or  a  grasp  of  the  hand,  hastening  on. 

Is  all  we  enjoy  of  each  other  in  this. 


124  QUICK!  WE  HA  VE  BUT  A  SECOND. 

But  come — the  more  rare  such  delights  to  the  heart. 
The  more  we  should  welcome,  and  bless  them  the 
more  : 
They're  ours  when  we  meet — they  are  lost  when  we 
part, 
Like  birds  that  bring  summer,  and  fly  when  'tis  o'er. 
Thus  circling  the  cup,  hand  in  hand,  ere  we  drink, 
Let  sympathy  pledge  us,  through  pleasure,  through 
pain, 
That  fast  as  a  feeling  but  touches  one  link. 

Her  magic  shall  send  it  direct  through  the  chain. 


QUICK  !    WE  HAVE  BUT  A  SECOND. 

Quick  !  we  have  but  a  second, 

Fill  round  the  cup  while  you  may  ; 
For  Time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned, 

And  we  must  away,  away  ! 
Grasp  the  pleasure  that's  flying. 
For  oh  !  not  Orpheus'  strain 
Could  keep  sweet  hours  from  dying, 
Or  charm  them  to  life  again. 

Then  quick  !  we  have  but  a  second, 

Fill  round,  fill  round,  while  you  may  ; 
For  Time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned, 
And  we  must  away,  away  ! 

See  the  glass,  how  it  flushes, 

Like  some  young  Hebe's  lip, 
And  half  meets  thine,  and  blushes 

That  thou  shouldst  delay  to  sip. 
Shame,  oh  shame  unto  thee. 

If  ever  thou  seest  the  day 


NE'ER  ASK  THE  HOUR.  125 

When  a  cup  or  a  lip  shall  woo  thee, 
And  turn  untouched  away  ! 

Then  quick  !  we  have  but  a  second, 

Fill  round,  fill  round  while  you  may  ; 
For  Time,  the  churl,  hath  beckoned, 
And  we  must  away,  away  ! 


NE'ER  ASK  THE  HOUR. 

Ne'er  ask  the  hour — what  is  it  to  us 
How  Time  deals  out  his  treasures  ? 
The  golden  moments  lent  us  thus 
Are  not  his  coin,  but  Pleasure's. 
If  counting  them  over  could  add  to  their  blisses, 

I'd  number  each  glorious  second  ; 
But  moments  of  joy  are,  like  Lesbia's  kisses, 
Too  quick  and  sweet  to  be  reckoned. 
Then  fill  the  cup — what  is  it  to  us 
How  Time  his  circle  measures  ? 
The  fairy  hours  we  call  up  thus 
Obey  no  wand  but  Pleasure's  ! 

Young  Joy  ne'er  thought  of  counting  hours, 

Till  Care,  one  summer's  morning, 
Set  up  among  his  smiling  flowers 

A  dial,  by  way  of  warning. 
But  Joy  loved  better  to  gaze  on  the  sun, 

As  long  as  its  light  was  glowing. 
Than  to  watch  with  old  Care  how  the  shadow  stole 
on. 
And  how  fast  that  light  was  going. 
So  fill  the  cup — wTiat  is  it  to  us 

How  Time  his  circle  measures  ? 
The  fairy  hours  we  call  up  thus 
Obey  no  wand  but  Pleasure's. 


126  DRINK  OF  THIS  CUP. 


DRINK  OF  THIS  CUP. 

Drtnk  of  this  cup — you'll  find  there's  a  spell  in 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 

Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 
Would  you  forget  the  dark  world  we  are  in, 

Only  taste  of  the  bubble  that  gleams  on  the  top  of  it  ; 
But  would  you  rise  above  earth,  till  akin 

To  immortals  themselves,  you  must  drain  every  drop  of 
it. 
Send  round  the  cup — for  oh  !  there's  a  spell  in 

Its  very  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 

Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 

Never  was  philtre  formed  with  such  power 

To  charm  and  bewilder  as  this  we  are  quaffing  ! 
Its  magic  began,  when,  in  Autumn's  rich  hour, 

As  a  harvest  of  gold  in  the  fields  it  stood  laughing. 
There  having  by  Nature's  enchantment  been  filled 

With  the  balm  and  the  bloom  of  her  kindliest  weather, 
This  wonderful  juice  from  its  core  was  distilled, 

To  enliven  such  hearts  as  are  here  brought  together  ! 
Then  drink  of  the  cup — you'll  find  there's  a  spell  in 

Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 
Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 

Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 

And  though,  perhaps — but  breathe  it  to  no  one — 

Like  cauldrons  that  witch  brews  at  midnight  so  awful, 

In  secret  this  philtre  was  first  taught  to  flow  on, 
Yet — 'tisn't  less  potent  for  being  unlawful. 

What  though  it  may  taste  of  the  smoke  of  that  flame 
Which  in  silence  extracted  its  virtue  forbidden  ? 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR.  127 

Fill  up — there's  a  fire  in  some  hearts  I  could  name, 
Which  may  work  to  its  charm,  though  now  lawless  and 
hidden. 

So  drink  of  the  cup — for  oh  !  there's  a  spell  in 
Its  every  drop  'gainst  the  ills  of  mortality — 

Talk  of  the  cordial  that  sparkled  for  Helen, 
Her  cup  was  a  fiction,  but  this  is  reality. 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 
Wit's  electric  flame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes, 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


Sages  can,  they  say. 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starr'd  dominions  ; 
So  we,  sages,  sit, 

And,  'mid  bumpers  bright'ning, 
From  the  heav'n  of  Wit 

Draw  down  all  its  light'ning  ! 


128  WREATHE  THE  BOWL. 

Wouklst  thou  know  what  first 

Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit  ? 
It  chanced  upon  that  day 

When  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us, 

The  careless  Youth,  when  up 

To  Glory's  fount  aspiring, 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfer'd  fire  in  : — 
But  oh  !  his  joy,  when  round 

The  halls  of  Heaven  spying. 
Amongst  the  stars  he  found 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying. 

Some  drops  were  in  the  bowl. 

Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 
With  which  the  Sparks  of  Soul 

Mix'd  their  burning  treasure  ! 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us — 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  the  flame  within  us. 

WREATHE  THE  BOWL. 

Wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul. 

The  brightest  wit  can  find  us  ; 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Towards  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 


WREATHE  THE  BOWL.  129 

Should  Love  amid 

The  wreaths  be  hid 
That  Joy,  the  enchanter,  brings  us, 

No  danger  fear 

While  wine  is  near, 
We'll  drown  him  if  he  stings  us. 

Then  wreathe  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul, 
The  brightest  wit  can  find  us  ; 

We'll  take  a  flight 

Towards  heaven  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 


'Twas  nectar  fed 

Of  old,  'tis  said, 
Their  Junos,  Joves,  Apollos  ; 

And  man  may  brew 

His  nectar  too, 
The  rich  receipt's  as  follows  : 

Take  wine  like  this, 

Let  looks  of  bliss 
Around  it  well  be  blended  ; 

Then  bring  wit's  beam 

To  warm  the  stream. 
And  there's  your  nectar,  splendid  ! 

So,  wreathe  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul 
The  brightest  wit  can  find  us  ; 

We  11  take  a  flight 

Towards  heaven  to-night. 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 

Say,  why  did  Time 
His  glass  sublime 
Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly, 


I30  WREATHE  THE  BOWL. 

When  wine,  he  knew, 
Runs  brisker  though, 

And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 
Oh,  lend  it  us, 
And,  smiling  thus. 

The  glass  in  two  we'll  sever, 
Make  pleasure  glide 
In  double  tide, 

And  fill  both  ends  for  ever ! 
Then  wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  wit  can  find  us  ; 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Towards  heaven  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us. 


The  foregoing  are  from  the  hish  Melodies, 


Hmorous* 


AMOROUS, 


GO  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But  while  fame  elates  thee, 

Oh  !  still  remember  me. 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 
Other  arms  may  press  thee, 
Dearer  friends  caress  ihee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee, 

Sweeter  far  may  be  ; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest, 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 

When  at  eve  thou  rovest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 
Think,  when  home  returning. 
Bright  w^e've  seen  it  burning, 

Oh  !  thus  remember  me. 
Oft  as  summer  closes, 
On  its  lingering  roses. 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them. 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 


134  FLY  NOT  YET. 

When  around  thee  dying, 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing. 

Oh  !  still  remember  me. 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee  ; 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee — 

Oh  !  then  remember  me. 


FLY  NOT  YET,    TIS  JUST  THE  HOUR. 

Fly  not  yet,  'tis  just  the  hour 
When  pleasure,  like  the  midnight  flow'r, 
That  scorns  the  eye  of  vulgar  light, 
Begins  to  bloom  for  sons  of  night, 

And  maids  who  love  the  moon  : 
'Twas  but  to  bless  these  hours  of  shade, 
That  beauty  and  the  moon  were  made  ; 
'Tis  then  their  soft  attractions  glowing, 
Set  the  tides  and  goblets  flowing  ; 

Oh  !  stay — Oh  !  stay, — 
Joy  so  seldom  weaves  a  chain 
Ivike  this  to-night,  that,  oh  !  'tis  pain 

To  break  its  links  so  soon. 

Fly  not  yet,  the  fount  that  play'd 

In  times  of  old  through  Amnion's  shade, 

Though  icy  cold  by  day  it  ran. 

Yet  still,  like  souls  of  mirth  began, 

To  burn  when  night  was  near ; 


LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  ERIN.  135 

And  thus,  should  woman's  heart  and  looks 
At  noon  be  cold  as  winter  brooks, 
Nor  kindle,  till  the  night  returning, 
Brings  their  genial  hour  for  burning, 

Oh  !  stay — ,oh  !  stay, — 
When  did  morning  ever  break, 
And  fmd  such  beaming  eyes  awake. 

As  these  that  sparkle  here  ! 


THOUGH  THE  LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  ERIN. 

Though  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I  see, 
Yet  wherever  thou  art  shall  seem  Erin  to  me  : 
In  exile  thy  bosom  shall  still  be  my  home, 
And  thine  eyes  be  my  climate  wherever  we  roam. 
To  the  gloom  of  some  desert,  or  cold  rocky  shore, 
Where  the  eye  of  the  stranger  can  hunt  us  no  more, 
I  will  fly  with  my  Coulin,  and  think  the  rough  wind 
Less  rude  than  the  foe  we  leave  frowning  behind. 
And  X\\  gaze  on  thy  gold  hair,  as  graceful  it  wreathes, 
And  hang  o'er  thy  soft  harp,  as  wildly  it  breathes  ; 
Nor  dread  that  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  will  tear 
One  chord  from  that  harp,  or  one  lock  from  that  hair.* 

*  "In  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  an 
Act  was  made  respecting  the  habits  and  dress  in  general  of  the 
Irish,  whereby  all  persons  were  restrained  from  being  shorn  or 
shaven  above  the  ear>,  or  from  wearing  Glibtes,  or  Coulins 
(long  locks),  on  their  head,  or  hair  on  the  upper  lip,  called 
Crommeal.  On  this  occasion  a  song  was  written  by  one  of  our 
bards,  in  which  an  Iri>h  virgin  is  made  to  give  the  preference  to 
her  dear  Coulin  (or  the  youth  with  the  flowing  locks)  to  all 
strangers  (by  which  the  English  were  meant),  or  those  who 
wore  their  habits.  Of  this  song,  the  air  alone  has  reached  us, 
and  is  universally  admired."-  Walker's  Historical  Memoirs  of 
Irish  Bai  ds,  page  134. 


136  WHILE  GAZING. 

BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEARING 
YOUNG  CHARMS. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  Heet  in  my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  ador'd,  as  this  moment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervour  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear  5 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  lov'd  never  forgets. 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sun -flower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  as  she  turn'd  when  he  rose. 


WHILE  GAZING  ON  THE  MOON'S  LIGHT, 

While  gazing  on  the  moon's  light, 

A  moment  from  her  smile  I  turn'd, 
To  look  at  orbs,  that,  more  briglit. 
In  lone  and  distant  glory  burn'd. 
But,  too  far 
Each  proud  star, 
For  me  to  feel  its  warming  flame  ; 
Much  more  dear. 
That  mild  sphere. 
Which  near  our  planet  smiling  came  ; 


ILL  OMENS.  137 

Thus,  Mary,  be  but  thou  my  own  ; 

While  brighter  eyes  unheeded  play, 
ril  love  those  moonlight  looks  alone, 

That  bless  my  home  and  guide  my  way. 

The  day  had  sunk  in  dim  showers, 

but  midnight  now,  with  lustre  meek, 
Illumined  all  the  pale  flowers. 

Like  hope  upon  a  mourner's  cheek. 
I  said  (while 
The  moon's  smile 
Play'd  o'er  a  stream,  in  dimpling  bliss), 
' '  The  moon  Tooks 
On  many  bror)ks, 
The  brook  can  see  no  moon  but  this  ;  " 
And  thus,  I  thought,  our  fortunes  run, 

For  many  a  lover  looks  to  thee. 

While  oh  !  I  feel  there  is  but  one, 

One  Mary  in  the  world  for  me. 

ILL  OMENS. 

When  daylight  wAs  yet  sleeping  under  the  billow, 

And  stars  in  the  heavens  still  ling'ring  shone, 
Young  Kitty,  all  blushing,  rose  up  from  her  pillow, 

The  last  time  she  e'er  was  to  press  it  alone. 
For  the  youth  whom  she  treasur'd  her  heart  and  her 
soul  in. 

Had  promis'd  to  link  the  last  tie  be.^ore  noon  ; 
And  when  once  the  young  heart  of  a  maiden  is  stolen, 

The  maiden  herself  will  steal  after  it  soon. 

As  she  look'd  in  the  glass,  which  a  woman  ne'er  misses, 
Nor  ever  wants  time  for  a  sly  glance  or  two, 

A  butterfly,  fresh  from  the  night  flower's  kisses, 
Flew  over  the  mirror  and  shaded  her  view. 


138  'TIS  SWEET  TO   THINK. 

Enraged  with  the  insect  for  hiding  her  graces, 
She  brusli'd  him — he  fell,  alas  !  never  to  rise — 

"  Ah  !  such,"  said  the  girl,  "  is  the  pride  of  our  faces, 
For  which  the  soul's  innocence  too  often  dies." 

While  she  stole  thro'  the  garden,  where  heart's-ease  was 
growing. 

She  cull'd  some,  and  kiss'd  off  its  night-fallen  dew  ; 
And  a  rose  further  on  looked  so  tempting  and  glowing, 

That,  spite  of  her  haste,  she  must  gather  it  too  ; 
But,  while  o'er  the  roses  too  carelessly  leaning, 

Her  zone  flew  in  two  and  the  heart's-ease  was  lost  : 
"Ah  !  this  means,"  said  the  girl  (and  she  sigh'd  at  its 
meaning), 

"  That  love  is  scarce  worth  the  repose  it  will  cost  !  " 


'TIS  SWEET  TO  THINK. 

Oh  !  'tis  sweet  to  think,  that,  where'er  we  rove. 

We  are  sure  to  find  something  blissful  and  dear, 
And  that,  when  we're  far  from  the  lips  we  love. 

We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near  ! 
The  heart,  like  a  tendril,  accustom'd  to  cling, 

Let  it  grow  where  it  will,  cannot  flourish  alone. 
But  will  lean  to  the  nearest  and  loveliest  thing 

It  can  twine  with  itself,  and  make  closely  its  own. 
Then  oh  !  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  be  sure  to  find  something  still  that  is  dear, 
And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near. 

'Twere  a  shame,  when  flowers  around  us  rise. 
To  make  light  of  the  rest,  if  the  rose  isn't  there  ; 

And  the  world's  so  rich  in  resplendent  eyes, 
'Twas  a  pity  to  limit  one's  love  to  a  pair. 


LOVE'S   YOUA'G  DREAM.  139 

Love's  wing  and  the  peacock's  are  nearly  alike, 

They  are  both  of  them  bright,  but  they're  changeable 
too, 
And  wherever  a  new  beam  of  beauty  can  strike, 

It  will  tincture  Love's  plume  with  a  different  hue  ! 
Then,  oh  !  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  be  sure  to  hnd  something  still  that  is  dear, 
And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love. 

We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  that  are  near. 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

Oh  !  the  days  are  gone  when  Beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove, 
When  my  dream  of  life  from  morn  till  night 
Was  love,  still  love. 
New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam. 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream  : 
No,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Tho'  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar. 

When  wild  youth's  past ; 
Tho'  he  win  the  wise,  who  frown'd  before, 
To  smile  at  last  ; 
He'll  never  meet 
A  joy  so  sweet. 
In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 
And,  at  every  close,  she  blush' d  to  hear 
The  one  lov'd  name  ! 


I40    LESBIA  HATH  A  BEAMING  EYE. 

No — that  hallovv'd  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Which  first  love  trac'd  ! 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
Of  memory's  waste. 
'Twas  odour  fled 
As  soon  as  shed  : 
'Twas  morning's  winged  dream  : 
'Twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  ! 
Oh  !  'twas  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 
On  life's  dull  stream  ! 


LESBIA  HATH  A  BEAMING  EVE. 
Lesbia  hath  a  beaming  eye, 

But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beameth  : 
Right  and  lelt  its  arrow-  fly, 

But  what  they  aim  at  no  one  dreameth  ! 
Sweeter  'tis  to  gaze  upon 

My  Nora's  lid,  that  seldom  rises  ; 
Few  her  looks,  but  every  one, 
Like  unexpected  light  surprises  ! 
Oh,  my  Nora  Creina  dear  ! 
My  gentle,  bashful  Nora  Creina  ! 
Beauty  lies 
In  many  eyes, 
But  love  in  yours,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 

Lesbia  wears  a  robe  of  gold. 

But  all  so  close  the  nymph  has  lac'd  it, 
Not  a  charm  of  beauty's  mould, 

Presumes  to  say  where  nature  plac'd  it  I 
Oh  !  my  Nora's  gown  for  me, 

That  floats  as  wild  as  mountain  breezes, 
Leaving  every  beauty  free 

To  sink  or  swell  as  heaven  pleases  ! 


/  SA  IV  THY  FORM.  141 

Yes,  my  Nora  Creina,  clear  ! 
My  simple,  graceful  Nora  Creina  ! 

Nature's  dress 

Is  loveliness, 
That  dress  j^/^  wear,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 

Lesbia  hath  a  wit  refin'd. 

But  when  its  points  are  gleaming  round  us, 
Who  can  tell  if  they're  design'd 

To  dazzle  merely,  or  to  wound  us  ? 
Pillow'd  on  my  Nora's  heart, 

In  safer  slumber  Love  reposes  ; 
Bed  of  peace  !  whose  roughest  part 

Is  but  the  crumpling  of  the  roses  ! 

Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear  ! 
My  mild,  my  artless  Nora  Creina  ! 
Wit,  though  bright, 
Hath  not  the  light 
That  warms  your  eyes,  my  Nora  Creina  ! 


I  SAW  THY  FORM  IN  YOUTHFUL  PRIME. 

I  SAW  thy  form  in  youthful  prime, 

Nor  thought  that  pale  decay 
Would  steal  before  the  steps  of  time. 

And  waste  its  bloom  away,  Mary  ! 
Yet  still  thy  features  wore  that  light 

Which  fleets  not  with  the  breath  ; 
And  life  ne'er  look'd  more  purely  bright 

Than  in  thy  smile  of  death,  ^Iary  ! 

As  streams  that  run  o'er  golden  mines. 

Yet  humbly,  calmly  glide, 
Nor  seem  to  know  the  wealth  that  shines 

Within  their  gentle  tide,  Mary  ! 


142     SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

So  veil'd  beneath  the  simplest  guise, 

Thy  radiant  genius  shone, 
And  that,  which  charm'd  all  other  eyes, 

Seem'd  worthless  in  thy  own,  Mary  ! 

If  souls  could  always  dwell  above, 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  left  that  sphere  ; 
Or  could  we  keep  the  souls  we  love, 

We  ne'er  had  lost  thee  here,  Mary  ! 
Though  many  a  gifted  mind  we  meet, 

Though  fairest  forms  we  see, 
To  live  with  them  is  far  less  sweet 

Than  to  remember  thee,  Mary  ! 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND.* 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  her  sighing, 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying  ! 

She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  lov'd  awaking — 
Ah  !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  Minstrel  is  breaking  ! 

He  had  liv'd  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwin'd  him, — 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried. 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him  ! 

*  Sarah  CniTan  (daughter  of  the  jjreat  Irish  orator)  and 
Robert  Emruett  were  jiliglited  lovers.  This  song  is  understood 
to  commemorate  the  grief  of  Miss  Curran  after  the  tragic  death 
of  Einmett.— Editor. 


WHAT  THE  BEE  IS.  143 

Oh  !  make  her  a  grave,  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 
\Mien  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  lov'd  island  of  sorrow  ! 


WHAT  THE  BEE  IS  TO  THE  FLOWERET. 

HE. 

What  the  bee  is  to  the  floweret, 
When  he  looks  for  honey-dew, 

Through  the  leaves  that  close  embow'r  it, 
That,  my  love,  I'll  be  to  you. 

SHE. 

What  the  bank  with  verdure  glowing 

Is  to  waves  that  wander  near, 
Whisp'ring  kisses,  while  they're  going. 

That  I'll  be  to  you,  my  dear  ! 

DUETTO. 

What  the  bank  with  verdure  glowing. 

Is  to  waves  that  wander  near, 
Whisp'ring  kisses,  while  they're  going. 

That  I'll  be  to  you,  my  dear. 

SHE. 

But,  they  say,  the  bee's  a  rover, 

That  he'll  fly  when  sweets  are  gone  ; 

And,  when  once  the  kiss  is  over, 
Faithless  brooks  will  wander  on. 

HE. 

Nay,  if  flowers  \\\\\  lose  their  looks, 
If  sunny  banks  will  wear  away, 

Tis  but  right  that  bees  and  brooks 
Should  sip  and  kiss  them  while  they  may. 


144  OH!  DOUBT  ME  NOT. 

AT  THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT. 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  lov'd,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine 
eye; 
And  I  think  that,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of 

air, 
To  visit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me 
there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd,  ev'n  in  the  sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song,  which  once  'twas  rapture  to 

hear,  [ear; 

When  our  voices  both  mingling,  breath'd  like  one  on  the 

And,  as  echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison 

rolls, 
I  think,  oh  my  love  !  'tis  thy  voice  from  the  kingdom 
of  souls 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

OH  !  DOUBT  ME  NOT. 

Oh  !  doubt  me  not— the  season 
Is  o'er  when  folly  made  me  rove, 

And  now  the  vestal  Reason 
Shall  watch  the  fire  awak'd  by  Love. 
Although  this  heart  was  early  blown, 

And  fairest  hands  disturb'd  the  tree, 
They  only  shook"Some  l)lossoms  down. 

Its  fruit  has  all  been  kept  for  thee. 

Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 
Is  o'er,  when  folly  made  me  rove. 

And  now  the  vestal  Reason 
Shall  watch  the  fire  awak'd  by  Love- 


THE   YOUNG  MA  V  MOON.  145 

And  though  my  lute  no  longer 
May  sing  of  passion's  ardent  spell, 
Oh  !  trust  me  all  the  stronger, 
I  feel  the  bliss  I  do  not  tell. 
The  bee  through  many  a  garden  roves. 

And  sings  his  lay  of  courtship  o'er, 
But  when  he  finds  the  flower  he  loves, 
He  settles  there,  and  hums  no  more. 
Then  doubt  me  not — the  reason 
Is  o'er,  when  folly  kept  me  free. 
And  now  the  vestal  Reason 
Shall  guard  the  flame  awak'd  by  thee. 

THE  YOUNG  MAY  MOON. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love. 
The  glow-worm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love, 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove, 
\\Tien  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love  ! 
Then  awake  !  the  heavens  look  bright,  my  dear  I 
'Tis  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear  ! 

And  the  best  of  all  ways. 

To  lengthen  our  days. 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear  ! 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love. 

But  the  sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love, 

And  I,  whose  star. 

More  glorious  far, 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake  ! — till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear  ! 
The  sage's  glass  we'll  shun,  my  dear  ; 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light, 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear. 

359 


1 46  YOU  REMEMBER  ELLEN. 

OH  !  HAD  WE  SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE  ISLE 
OF  OUR  OWN  ! 

Oh  !  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 

In  a  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone  ; 

Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still-blooming  bow'rs, 

And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flow'rs; 

Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 
With  so  fond  a  delay, 

That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  day  ; 
Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live, 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give  ; 

There,  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  clime, 
We  should  love  as  they  lov'd  in  the  first  golden  time  ; 
The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air, 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts  and  make  all  summer  there  ! 

With  affection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers  ; 

And  with  Hope,  like  the  bee, 
Living  always  on  flowers, 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light. 
And  our  death  come  on,  holy  and  calm  as  the  night  ! 


YOU  REMEMBER  ELLEN. 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet's  pride, 
How  meekly  she  bless'd  her  humble  lot, 

When  the  stranger,  William,  had  made  her  his  bride, 
And  love  was  the  light  of  their  lowly  cot. 


PD  MOURX  THE  HOPES.  147 

Together  they  toil'd  through  winds  and  rains, 

Till  William  at  length  in  sadness  said, 
'•  We  must  seek  our  fortune  on  other  plains," 

Then,  sighing,  she  left  her  lowly  shed. 

They  roam'd  a  long  and  a  weary  way, 

Nor  much  was  the  maiden's  heart  at  ease, 
When  now^,  at  the  close  of  one  stormy  day, 

They  see  a  proud  castle  among  the  trees. 
"  To-night,"  said  the  youth,  "  we'll  shelter  there  ; 

The  wind  blows  cold,  the  hour  is  late  !  " 
So  he  blew  the  horn  with  a  chieftain's  air. 

And  the  porter  bow'd  as  they  pass'd  the  gate. 

"  Now,  welcome,  Lady  !  "  exclaim'd  the  youth, — 

"  This  castle  is  thine,  and  those  dark  woods  all  !  " 
She  believ'd  him  wild,  but  his  w^ords  were  truth, 

For  Ellex  is  Lady  of  Rosna  hall  ! 
And  dearly  the  Lord  of  Rosna  loves 

^^^lat  William  the  stranger  woo'd  and  wed  ; 
And  the  light  of  bliss  in  these  lordly  groves 

Is  pure  as  it  shone  in  the  lowly  shed. 


I'D  MOURX  THE  HOPES  THAT  LEAVE  ME. 

I'd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me, 

If  thy  smiles  had  left  me  too  ; 
I'd  weep  when  friends  deceive  me, 

Hadst  thou  been  like  them  untrue. 
But  while  I've  thee  before  me, 

With  heart  so  warm,  and  eyes  so  bright, 
No  clouds  can  linger  o'er  me, 

That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light. 


148  COME  O'ER   THE  SEA. 

'Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 

While  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me ; 
'Ti.s  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 

Unless  joy  be  shar'd  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee 

Were  worth  a  long  and  endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee. 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear  ! 

And  though  the  hope  be  gone,  love, 

That  long  sparkled  o'er  our  way, 
Oh  !  we  sliall  journey  on,  love, 

More  safely,  without  its  ray. 
Far  better  light  shall  win  me, 

Along  the  path  I've  yet  to  roam  ; 
The  mind  that  burns  within  me, 

And  pure  smiles  from  thee  at  home. 

Thus  when  the  lamp  that  lighted 

The  traveller,  at  first  goes  out, 
He  feels  awhile  benighted, 

And  looks  round  in  fear  and  doubt. 
But  soon,  the  prospect  clearing, 

By  cloudless  star-light  on  he  treads, 
And  thinks  no  lamp  so  cheering 

As  that  light  which  heaven  sheds  ! 

COME  O'ER  THE  SEA. 

Come  o'er  the  sea, 

Maiden  !  with  me 
Mine  through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows  ! 

Seasons  may  roll. 

But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same  where'er  it  goes. 


THE  TIME  PVE  LOST.  149 

Let  fate  frown  on,  so  we  love  and  part  not ; 
'Tis  life  where  thou  art,  'tis  death  where  thou  art 
not  ! 

Then  come  o'er  the  sea, 
Maiden  !  with  me, 
Come  wherever  the  wild  wind  blows  ; 
Seasons  may  roll, 
But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same  where'er  it  goes. 

Is  not  the  sea 

JNIade  for  the  free, 
Land  for  courts  and  chains  alone  ? 

Here  we  are  slaves. 

But  on  the  waves 
Love  and  liberty's  all  our  own  ; 
No  eye  to  watch,  no  tongue  to  wound  us, 
All  earth  forgot,  and  all  heaven  around  us  ! 

Then  come  o'er  the  sea, 

Maiden  with  me. 
Come  wherever  the  wild  wind  blows  j 

Seasons  may  roll, 

But  the  true  soul 
Burns  the  same  where'er  it  goes. 


* 


THE  TIME  I'VE  LOST  IN  WOOING. 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes. 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 


ISO      COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorn'd  the  lore  she  brought  me  : 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me. 

Her  smile,  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him,  the  sprite, 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted, 
Like  him,  too.  Beauty  won  me  ; 
But,  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turn'd  away, 
Oh  !  winds  could  not  outrun  me. 

And  are  those  follies  going  ? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing  ? 
No — vain,  alas  !  th'  endeavour, 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever  : 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever  ! 

COME,  REST  IN  THIS  BOSOM. 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still 

here  : 
Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  the  heart  and  the  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 


OH!  COULD  WE  DO.  151 

Oh  !  what  was  love  made  for,  if  'tis  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and  through  torments,  through  glory  and 

shame  ! 
I  knew  not,  I  ask  not  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art  ! 

Thou  hast  call'd  me  thy  angel,  in  moments  of  bliss, — 
Still  thy  angel  I'll  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  or  perish  there  too  ! 


OH,  COULD  WE  DO  WITH  THIS  WORLD 
OF  OURS. 

Oh,  could  we  do  with  this  world  of  ours 
As  thou  dost  with  thy  garden  bowers. 
Reject  the  weeds  and  keep  the  flowers. 

What  a  heaven  on  earth  we'd  make  it  ! 
So  bright  a  dwelling  should  be  our  own, 
So  warranted  free  from  sigh  or  frown, 
That  angels  soon  would  be  coming  down, 

By  the  week  or  month  to  take  it. 

Like  those  gay  flies  that  wing  thro'  air, 
And  in  themselves  a  lustre  bear, 
A  stock  of  light,  still  ready  there, 

WTienever  they  wish  to  use  it ; 
So,  in  this  world  I'd  make  for  thee. 
Our  hearts  should  all  like  fire-flies  be, 
And  the  flash  of  wit  or  poesy 

Break  forth  whenever  we  choose  it. 

\Miile  ev'ry  joy  that  glads  our  sphere 
Hath  still  some  shadow  hovering  near, 
In  this  new  world  of  ours,  my  dear, 
Such  shadows  will  all  be  omitted  : — 


152  THE  MOUNTAIN  SPRITE. 

Unless  they're  like  that  graceful  one, 
Which,  when  thou'rt  dancing  in  the  sun, 
Still  near  thee,  leaves  a  charm  upon 
Each  spot  where  it  hath  flitted  ! 


I'VE  A  SECRET  TO  TELL  THEE. 

I've  a  secret  to  tell  thee,  but  hush  !  not  here, — 

Oh  !  not  where  the  world  its  vigil  keeps  : 
I'll  seek  to  whisper  it  in  thine  ear. 

Some  shore  where  the  Spirit  of  Silence  sleeps; 
Where  summer's  wave  unmurmuring  dies, 

Nor  fay  can  hear  the  fountain's  gush  ; 
Where,  if  but  a  note  her  night-bird  sighs. 

The  rose  saith,  chidingly,  "  Hush,  sweet,  hush  !" 

There,  amid  the  deep  silence  of  that  hour, 

When  stars  can  be  heard  in  ocean  dip, 
Thyself  shali,  under  some  rosy  bower. 

Sit  mute,  with  thy  finger  on  thy  lip  : 
Like  him,  the  boy,*  who  born  among 

The  flowers  that  on  the  Nile-stream  blush, 
Sits  ever  thus, — his  only  song 

To  earth  and  heaven,  "  Hush,  all,  hush  !  " 


THE  MOUNTAIN  SPRITE. 

In  yonder  valley  there  dwelt,  alone, 

A  youth,  whose  life  all  had  calmly  flown. 

Till  spells  came  o'er  him,  and,  day  and  night, 

He  was  haunted  and  watched  by  a  Mountain  Sprite. 

*  The  God  of  Silence,  thus  pictured  by  the  Egyptians. 


THE  Y  KNO  W  NO T  MY  HEAR  T.     153 

As  he,  by  moonlight,  went  wandering  o'er 
The  golden  sands  of  that  island  shore, 
A  footprint  sparkled  before  his  sight, 
'Twas  the  fairy  foot  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

Beside  a  fountain,  one  sunny  day, 

As,  looking  down  on  the  stream  he  lay, 

Behind  him  stole  two  eyes  of  light. 

And  he  saw  in  the  clear  wave  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

He  turned — but  lo,  like  a  startled  bird, 

The  Spirit  fled — and  he  only  heard 

Sweet  music,  such  as  marks  the  flight 

Of  a  journeying  star,  from  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

One  night,  pursued  by  that  dazzling  look, 
The  youth,  bewildered,  his  pencil  took, 
And  guided  only  by  memory's  light. 
Drew  the  fairy  form  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

"  Oh  thou,  who  lovest  the  shadow,"  cried 
A  gentle  voice,  whispering  by  his  side, 
"  Now  turn  and  see," — here  the  youth's  delight 
Sealed  the  rosy  lips  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

*'  Of  all  the  Spirits  of  land  and  sea," 
Exclaimed  he  then,  '*  there  is  none  like  thee  ; 
And  oft,  oh  oft,  may  thy  shape  alight 
In  this  lonely  arbour,  sweet  Mountain  Sprite.'' 


THEY  KNOW  NOT  MY  HEART. 

They  know  not  my  heart,  who  believe  there  can  be 
One  stain  of  this  earth  in  its  feelings  for  thee; 
Who  think,  while  I  see  thee  in  beauty's  young  hour, 
As  pure  as  the  morning's  first  dew  on  the  flower, 


54  IF  THOU'LT  BE  MINE. 

I  could  harm  what  I  love— as  the  sun's  wanton  ray 
But  smiles  on  the  dewdrop  to  waste  it  away  ! 

No — beaming  with  light  as  those  young  features  are, 
There's  a  light  round  thy  heart  which  is  lovelier  far  : 
It  is  not  that  cheek — 'tis  the  soul  dawning  clear 
Through  its  innocent  blush  makes  thy  beauty  so  dear- 
As  the  sky  we  look  up  to,  though  glorious  and  fair, 
Is  looked  up  to  the  more,  because  heaven  is  there  ! 


IF  THOU'LT  BE  MINE. 

If  thou'lt  be  mine,  the  treasures  of  air, 
Of  earth  and  sea,  shall  lie  at  thy  feet ; 

Whatever  in  Fancy's  eye  looks  fair, 

Or  in  Hope's  sweet  music  is  7}iost  sweet, 
Shall  be  ours,  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love  ! 

Bright  flowers  shall  bloom  wherever  we  rove, 
A  voice  divine  shall  talk  in  each  stream. 

The  stars  shall  look  like  worlds  of  love. 
And  this  earth  be  all  one  beautiful  dream 
In  our  eyes,  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love  ! 

And  thoughts,  whose  source  is  hidden  and  high. 
Like  streams  that  come  from  heavenward  hills, 

Shall  keep  our  hearts — like  meads,  that  lie 
To  be  bathed  by  those  eternal  rills — 
Ever  green,  if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love  ! 

All  this  and  more  the  Spirit  of  Love 

Can  breathe  o'er  them  who  feel  his  spells ; 

That  heaven,  which  forms  his  home  above. 
He  can  make  on  earth,  wherever  he  dwells. 
And  he  zuill — if  thou  wilt  be  mine,  love  ! 


TO  LADIES'  EYES.  155 

ECHO. 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 

To  music  at  night, 
When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away,  o'er  lawns  and  lakes, 

Goes  answering  light. 

Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far, 

And  far  more  sweet, 
Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  star. 
Of  horn,  or  lute,  or  soft  guitar, 

The  songs  repeat. 

'Tis  when  the  sigh  in  youth  sincere, 

And  only  then, — 
The  sigh,  that's  breathed  for  one  to  hear, 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  dear, 

Breathed  back  again  ! 


TO  LADIES'  EYES. 

To  ladies'  eyes  a  round,  boy, 

We  can't  refuse,  we  can't  refuse  ; 
Though  bright  eyes  so  abound,  boy, 

'Tis  hard  to  choose,  'tis  hard  to  choose. 
For  thick  as  stars  that  lighten 

Yon  air>'  bowers,  yen  airy  bowers, 
The  countless  eyes  that  brighten 

This  earth  of  ours,  this  earth  of  ours. 
But  fill  the  cup — where'er,  boy, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 
We're  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all  !  so  drink  them  all  ! 


1 56  THE  V  AT  A  V  RAIL  A  T  THIS  LIFE. 

Some  looks  there  are  so  holy, 

They  seem  but  given,  they  seem  but  given, 
As  splendid  beacons  solely, 

To  light  to  heaven,  to  light  to  heaven. 
While  some — oh  !  ne'er  believe  them — 

With  tempting  ray,  with  tempting  ray, 
Would  lead  us  (God  forgive  them  !) 

The  other  way,  the  other  way. 
But  fill  the  cup — where'er,  boy, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 
We're  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all  !  so  drink  them  all  ! 

In  some,  as  in  a  mirror. 

Love  seems  portrayed.  Love  seems  portrayed  ; 
But  shun  the  flattering  error, 

'Tis  but  his  shade,  'tis  but  his  shade. 
Himself  has  fixed  his  dwelling 

In  eyes  we  know,  in  eyes  we  know, 
And  lips — but  this  is  telling, 

So  here  they  go  !  so  here  they  go  ! 
Fill  up,  fill  up — where'er,  boys, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall. 
We're  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy. 

So  drink  them  all  !  so  drink  them  all  ! 

THEY  MAY  RAIL  AT  THIS  LIFE. 
They  may  rail  at  this  life — from  the  hour  I  began  it, 

I've  found  it  a  life  full  of  kindness  and  bliss  ; 
And  until  they  can  show  me  some  happier  planet, 

More  social  and  bright,  I'll  content  me  with  this. 
As  long  as  the  world  has  such  eloquent  eyes, 

As  before  me  this  moment  enraptured  I  see. 
They  may  say  what  they  will  of  their  orbs  in  the  skies, 

Jjut  this  earth  is  the  planet  for  you,  love,  and  me. 


LOVE  AND  POVERTY.  157 

In  Mercury's  star,  where  each  minute  can  bring  them 

New  sunshine  and  wit  from  the  fountain  on  high, 
Though  the  nymphs  may  have  livelier  poets  to  sing  them, 

They've  none,  even  there,  more  enamoured  than  I. 
And  as  long  as  this  harp  can  be  wakened  to  love, 

And  that  eye  its  divine  inspiration  shall  be, 
They  may  talk  as  they  will  of  their  Edens  above. 

But  this  earth  is  the  planet  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

In  that  star  of  the  west,  by  whose  shadowy  splendour 

At  twilight  so  often  we've  roamed  through  the  dew, 
There  are  maidens,  perhaps,  who  have  bosoms  as  tender, 

And  look,  in  their  twilights,  as  lovely  as  you. 
But  though  they  were  even  more  bright  than  the  queen 

Of  that  isle  they  inhabit  in  heaven's  blue  sea, 
As  I  never  those  fair  young  celestials  have  seen, 

Why, — this  earth  is  the  planet  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

As  for  those  chilly  orbs  on  the  verge  of  creation, 

Where  sunshine  and  smiles  must  be  equally  rare, 
Did  they  want  a  supply  of  cold  hearts  for  that  station. 

Heaven   knows   we  have   plenty  on   earth    we   could 
spare. 
Oh  !  think  what  a  world  we  should  have  of  it  here, 

If  the  haters  of  peace,  of  affection,  and  glee. 
Were  to  fly  up  to  Saturn's  comfortless  sphere. 

And  leave  earth  to  such  spirits  as  you,  love,  and  me. 

The  foregoing  arefro)>i  the  Irish  Melodies. 

LOVE  AND  POVERTY. 

Young  Love  lived  once  in  an  humble  shed, 
W^here  roses  breathing 
And  woodbines  wreathing 


158  LOVE  ANAL YSED. 

Around  the  lattice  their  tendrils  spread, 
As  wild  and  sweet  as  the  life  he  led. 
His  garden  flourish'd, 
For  young  Hope  nourish'd 
The  infant  buds  with  beams  and  showers  ; 
But  lips,  though  blooming,  must  still  be  fed. 
And  not  even  Love  can  live  on  flowers. 

Alas  !  that  Poverty's  evil  eye 

Should  e'er  come  hither, 

Such  sweets  to  wither  ! 
The  flowers  laid  down  their  heads  to  die, 
And  Hope  fell  sick  as  the  witch  drew  nigh. 

She  came  one  morning. 

Ere  Love  had  warning, 
And  raised  the  latch,  where  the  young  god  lay 
"  Oh  ho  !  "  said  Love — "  is  it  you  ?  good-bye  :  '' 
So  he  oped  the  window,  and  flew  away  ! 

LOVE  ANALYSED. 

To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain. 

To  weep,  yet  scarce  know  why ; 
To  sport  an  hour  with  Beauty's  chain, 

Then  throw  it  idly  by  ; 
To  kneel  at  many  a  shrine 

Yet  lay  the  heart  on  none  ; 
To  think  all  other  charms  divine, 

But  those  we  just  have  won  ; 
This  is  love,  careless  love, 
Such  as  kindleth  hearts  that  rove. 

To  keep  one  sacred  flame, 

Through  life  unchill'd,  unmoved. 

To  love  in  wintry  age  the  same 
As  first  in  youth  we  loved  ; 


THE  DECEIVED  LOVER.  159 

To  feel  that  we  adore 

To  such  refined  excess, 
That   though   the   heart   would    break   with 
more, 

"We  could  not  live  with  less  ; 
This  is  love,  faithful  love, 
Such  as  saints  might  feel  above. 

THE  DECEIVED  LOVER. 

When  Charles  was  deceived  by  the  maid  he  loved, 

We  saw  no  cloud  his  brow  o'ercasting, 
But  proudly  he  smiled,  as  if  gay  and  unmoved. 

Though   the  wound    in    his    heart   was   deep   and 
lasting. 
And  oft  at  night,  when  the  tempest  roll'd, 

He  sung  as  he  paced  the  dark  deck  over — 
"  Blow,  wind,  blow  !  thou  art  not  so  cold 

As  the  heart  of  a  maid  that  deceives  her  lover." 

Yet  he  lived  with  the  happy,  and  seem'd  to  be  gay, 

Though    the    wound     but    sunk     more     deep     for 
concealing  ; 
And  fortune  threw  many  a  thorn  in  his  way, 

^^^lich,  true  to  one  anguish,  he  trod  without  feeling  ! 
And  still,  by  the  frowning  of  fate  unsubdued, 

He  sung,  as  if  sorrow  had  placed  him  above  her  — 
'•  Frown,  fate,  frown  !  thou  art  not  so  rude 

As  the  heart  of  a  maid  that  deceives  her  lover.'" 

At  length  his  career  found  a  close  in  death, 

The  close  he  long  wish'd  to  his  cheerless  roving, 

For  victory  shone  on  his  latest  breath, 

And  he  died  in  a  cause  of  his  heart's  approving. 


i6o   MAJ^V,  I  BELIEVED  THEE  IRUE. 

\ 

\  But  still  he  remember'd  his  sorrow, — and  still 

I  He  sung  till  the  vision  of  life  was  over — 

"Come,  death,  come  !  thou  art  not  so  chill 
As  the  heart  of  a  maid  that  deceives  her  lover." 

THE  CHARMS  OF  WOMEN. 

When  life  looks  lone  and  dreary, 

;  What  light  can  expel  the  gloom  ? 

;  When  Time's  swift  wing  grows  weary, 

I  What  charm  can  refresh  his  plume  ? 

I  'Tis  woman,  whose  sweetness  beamelh 

j  O'er  all  that  we  feel  or  see  ; 

i  And  if  man  of  heaven  e'er  dreameth, 

I  Tis  when  he  thinks  purely  of  thee, 

,  O  woman  ! 

i  Let  conquerors  fight  for  glory, 

]  Too  dearly  the  meed  they  gain  ; 

!  Let  patriots  live  in  glory — 

Too  often  they  die  in  vain  ; 
Give  kingdoms  to  those  who  choose  'em. 

This  world  can  offer  to  me 
No  throne  like  beauty's  bosom, 
No  Freedom  like  serving  thee, 
O  woman  ! 

MARY,  I  BELIEVED  THEE  TRUE. 

Mary,  I  believed  thee  true, 

And  I  was  blest  in  thus  believing  ; 

But  now  I  mourn  that  e'er  I  knew, 
A  girl  so  fair  and  so  deceiving  ! 

Fare  thee  well. 


TAKE  BACK  THE  SIGH.            i6i 

Few  have  ever  loved  like  me, 

Oh  !  I  have  loved  thee  too  sincerely  ! 

And  few  have  e'er  deceived  like  thee, 
Alas  !  deceived  me  too  severely  ! 

Fare  thee  well  ! 

Fare  thee  well,  yet  think  a  while 

On  one  whose  bosom  bleeds  to  doubt  thee ; 
WTio  now  would  rather  trust  that  smile. 

And  die  with  thee  than  live  without  thee  ! 
Fare  thee  well  ! 

Fare  thee  well  !  I'll  think  of  thee, 

Thou  leav'st  me  many  a  bitter  token  ; 

For  see,  distracting  woman  !  see, 

My  peace  is  gone,  my  heart  is  broken  ! 

Fare  thee  well  ! 

* 

TAKE  BACK  THE  SIGH. 

Take  back  the  sigh  thy  lips  of  art 

In  passion's  moment  breathed  to  me  ; 
Yet,  no— it  must  not,  will  not  part, 
'Tis  now  the  life-breath  of  my  heart, 
And  has  become  too  pure  for  thee  ! 

Take  back  the  kiss,  that  faithless  sigh 

With  all  the  warmth  of  truth  imprest : 

Yet,  no— the  fatal  kiss  may  lie, 

Upon  thy  lip  its  sweets  would  die, 

Or  bloom  to  make  a  rival  blest  !                 . 

360 

i62  AAY,  DO  NOT  WEEP. 

Take  back  the  vows  that,  night  and  day 

My  heart  received,  I  thought,  from  thine 
Yet,  no — allow  them  still  to  stay, 
They  might  some  other  heart  betray, 
As  sweetly  as  they've  ruin'd  mine  ! 


NAY,  DO  NOT  WEEP. 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  Fanny  dear  ! 

While  in  these  arms  you  lie. 
The  world  hath  not  a  wish,  a  fear. 
That  ought  to  claim  one  precious  tear 

From  that  beloved  eye  ! 

The  world  ! — ah,  Fanny  !  love  must  shun 

The  path  where  many  rove  ; 
One  bosom  to  recline  upon. 
One  heart,  to  be  his  only  one, 

Are  quite  enough  for  love  ! 

What  can  we  wish  that  is  not  here 

Between  your  arms  and  mine  ? 
Is  there  on  earth  a  space  so  dear 
As  that  within  the  blessed  sphere 
Two  loving  arms  entwine  ? 

For  me,  there's  not  a  lock  of  jet 

Along  your  temples  curl'd. 
Within  whose  glossy,  tangling  net, 
My  soul  doth  not  at  once  forget 

All,  all  the  worthless  world  ! 


A  LOVER'S  RETROSPECT.  163 

'Tis  in  your  eyes,  my  sweetest  love  ! 

My  only  worlds  I  see  ; 
Let  but  their  orbs  in  sunshine  move. 
And  earth  below  and  skies  above, 

May  frown  or  smile  for  me  ! 


I  FOUND  HER  NOT. 

I  FOUND  her  not — the  chamber  seem'd 
Like  some  divinely -haunted  place, 

^^■here  fairy  forms  had  lately  beam'd, 
And  left  behind  their  odorous  trace. 

It  felt  as  if  her  lips  had  shed 
A  sigh  around  her  ere  she  fled, 
Which  hung,  as  on  a  melting  lute. 
When  all  the  silver  chords  are  mute. 
There  lingers  still  a  trembling  breath 
After  the  note's  luxurious  death, 
A  shade  of  song,  a  spirit  air 
Of  melodies  which  had  been  there  ! 

O  Nea  !  Nea  !  where  art  thou  ? 

In  pity  fly  not  thus  from  me  ; 
Thou  art  my  life,  my  essence  now. 

And  my  soul  dies  of  wanting  thee, 

A  LOVER'S  RETROSPECT. 

And  hast  thou  mark'd  the  pensive  shade, 
That  many  a  time  obscures  my  brow, 

Amidst  the  happiness,  dear  maid, 

Which  thou  canst  give,  and  only  thou  ? 


i64  A  LOVE/^'S  RETROSPECT. 

Oh  !  'tis  not  that  I  then  forget 

The  endearing  charms  that  round  me  twine- 
There  never  throbb'd  a  bosom  yet 

Could  feel  their  witchery  like  mine  ! 

WHien  bashful  on  my  bosom  hid, 
And  blushing  to  have  felt  so  blest, 

Thou  dost  but  lift  thy  languid  lid, 
Again  to  close  it  on  my  breast ! 

Oh  !  these  are  minutes  all  thine  own, 
Thine  own  to  give,  and  mine  to  feel. 

Yet  even  in  them,  my  heart  has  known 
The  sigh  to  rise,  the  tear  to  steal. 

For  I  have  thought  of  former  hours, 
When  he  who  first  thy  soul  possess'd. 

Like  me  awaked  its  witching  powers, 
Like  me  was  loved,  like  me  was  blest ! 

Upon  Ais  name  thy  murmuring  tongue 
Perhaps  hath  all  as  sweetly  dwelt ; 

For  him  that  snowy  lid  hath  hung 
In  ecstasy  as  purely  felt  ! 

For  him — yet  why  the  past  recall 
To  wither  blooms  of  present  bliss  ? 

Thou'rt  now  my  own,  I  clasp  thee  all, 
And  heaven  can  grant  no  more  than  this  ! 

Forgive  me,  dearest,  oh  !  forgive ; 

I  would  be  first,  be  sole  to  thee. 
Thou  shouldst  have  but  begun  to  live 

The  hour  that  gave  thy  heart  to  me. 


LOVE  AND  LYING.  165 

Thy  book  of  life  till  then  effaced, 

Love  should  have  kept  that  leaf  alone, 

On  which  he  tirst  so  dearly  traced 

That  thou  wert,  soul  and  all,  my  own  ! 


LOVE  AND  LYING. 

I  DO  confess,  in  many  a  sigh 
JNIy  lips  have  breathed  you  many  a  lie. 
And  who,  with  delights  in  view. 
Would  lose  them  for  a  lie  or  two  ? 
Nay,  look  not  thus,  with  brow  reproving  ; 
Lies  are,  my  dear,  the  soul  of  loving  ! 
If  half  we  tell  the  girls  were  true, 
If  half  we  swear  to  think  and  do, 
Were  aught  but  lying's  bright  illusion, 
The  world  would  be  in  strange  confusion  ! 
If  ladies'  eyes  were,  every  one. 
As  lovers'  swear,  a  radiant  sun. 
Astronomy  should  leave  the  skies, 
To  learn  her  lore  in  ladies'  eyes  ! 
Oh  no  ! — believe  me,  lovely  girl, 
When  Nature  turns  your  teeth  to  pearl, 
Your  neck  to  snow,  your  eyes  to  fire. 
Your  yellow  locks  to  golden  wire. 
Then,  only  then,  can  Heaven  decree, 
That  you  should  liv'e  for  only  me. 

And  now,  my  gentle  hints  to  clear, 
For  once,  I'll  tell  you  truth,  my  dear  ! 
Whenever  you  may  chance  to  meet 
A  loving  youth  whose  love  is  sweet. 
Long  as  you're  false  and  he  believes  you, 


1 66  COMPARISONS. 

Long  as  you  trust  and  he  deceives  you, 
So  long  the  blissful  bond  endures  ; 
And  while  he  lies,  his  heart  is  yours  ; 
But,  oh  !  you've  wholly  lost  the  youth 
The  instant  that  he  tells  the  truth  ! 


A  PARTING. 

With  all  my  soul,  then,  let  us  part, 
Since  both  are  anxious  to  be  free  ; 

And  I  will  send  you  home  your  heart, 
If  you  will  send  back  mine  to  me. 

We've  had  some  happy  hours  together, 
But  joy  must  often  change  its  wing  ; 

And  spring  would  be  but  gloomy  weather 
If  we  had  nothing  else  but  spring. 

'Tis  not  that  I  expect  to  find 

A  more  devoted,  fond,  and  true  one, 

With  rosier  cheek  or  sweeter  mind — 
Enough  for  me  that  she's  a  new  one. 


COMPARISONS. 

Why  does  azure  deck  the  sky  ? 

'Tis  to  be  like  thy  looks  of  blue ; 
Why  is  red  the  rose's  dye  ? 

Because  it  is  thy  blushes'  hue. 
All  that's  fair,  by  Love's  decree, 
Has  been  made  resembling  thee  ! 


LAMIA.  167 

Why  is  falling  snow  so  white, 

But  to  be  like  thy  bosom  fair ! 
Why  are  solar  beams  so  bright  ? 

That  they  may  seem  thy  golden  hair  ; 
All  that's  bright,  by  Love's  decree, 
Has  been  made  resembling  thee  ! 

Why  are  nature's  beauties  felt  ? 

Oh  !  'tis  thine  in  her  we  see  ! 
Why  has  music  power  to  melt  ? 

Oh  !  because  it  speaks  like  thee. 
All  that's  sweet,  by  Love's  decree, 
Has  been  made  resembling  thee  ! 


LAMIA. 

"  She  never  look'd  so  kind  before — 
Yet  why  the  melting  smile  recall  ? 

I've  seen  this  witchery  o'er  and  o'er, 
'Tis  hollow,  vain,  and  heartless  all  ! '' 

Thus  I  said,  and,  sighing,  sipp'd 

The  wine  which  she  had  lately  tasted  ; 

The  cup  where  she  had  lately  dipp'd 
Breath  so  long  in  falsehood  wasted. 

I  took  the  harp,  and  would  have  sung 
As  if  'twere  not  of  her  I  sang  ; 

But  still  the  notes  on  Lamia  hung — 
On  whom  but  Lamia  coiili  they  hang  ? 

That  kiss,  for  which,  if  worlds  were  mine, 
A  world  for  every  kiss  I'd  give  her ; 

Those  floating  eyes  that  floating  shine 
Like  diamonds  in  an  eastern  river  ! 


i68  ODES  TO  NEA. 

That  mould  so  fine,  so  pearly  bright, 

Of  which  luxurious  Heaven  hath  cast  her, 

Through  which  her  soul  did  beam  as  white 
As  flame  through  lamps  of  alabaster  ! 

.    Of  these  I  sung,  and  notes  and  words 
Were  sweet,  as  if  'twas  Lamia's  hair 
That  lay  upon  my  lute  for  chords, 
And  Lamia's  lip  that  warbled  there  ! 

But  when,  alas  !  I  turn'd  the  theme, 
And  when  of  vows  and  oaths  I  spoke, 

Of  truth  and  hope's  beguiling  dream — 
The  chord  beneath  my  finger  broke. 

And  when  that  thrill  is  most  awake, 

And  when  you  think  heaven's  joys  await  you, 

The  nymph  will  change,  the  chord  will  break— 
O  love  !  O  music  1  how  I  hate  you  ! 


ODES  TO  NEA  : 

WRITTEN    AT   BERMUDA. 

You  read  it  in  my  languid  eyes, 

And  there  alone  should  love  be  read  ; 

You  hear  me  say  it  all  in  sighs. 

And  thus  alone  should  love  lae  said. 

Then  dread  no  more  ;  I  will  not  speak  ; 

Although  my  heart  to  anguish  thrill, 
I'll  spare  the  burning  of  your  cheek. 

And  look  it  all  in  silence  still  ! 


ODES   TO  NEA.  169 

Heard  you  the  wish  I  dared  to  name, 

To  murmur  on  that  luckless  night, 
When  passion  broke  the  bonds  of  shame, 

And  love  grew  madness  in  your  sight  ? 

Divinely  through  the  graceful  dance, 

You  seem'd  to  float  in  silent  song, 
Bending  to  earth  that  beamy  glance, 

As  if  to  light  your  steps  along  ! 

Oh  !  how  could  others  dare  to  touch 
That  hallow'd  form  with  hand  so  free, 

When  but  to  look  was  bliss  too  much, 
Too  rare  for  all  but  heaven  and  me  ! 


With  smiling  eyes,  that  little  thought 
How  fatal  were  the  beams  they  threw, 

My  trembling  hands  you  lightly  caught, 
And  round  me  like  a  spirit,  flew. 

Heedless  of  all,  I  wildly  turn'd, 

My  soul  forgot — nor,  oh  !  condemn. 

That  when  such  eyes  before  me  burn"d, 
My  soul  forgot  all  eyes  but  them  ! 

I  dared  to  speak  in  sobs  of  bliss, 
Pvapture  of  every  thought  bereft  me, 

I  would  have  clasped  you — oh,  even  this  !- 
But,  with  a  bound,  you  blushing  left  me. 

Forget,  forget  that  night's  offence  ; 

Forgive  it,  if,  alas  !  you  can  ; 
'Twas  love,  'twas  passion — soul  and  sense- 

"Twas  all  the  best  and  worst  of  man  ! 


I70  ODES  TO  NEA. 

That  moment  did  the  mingled  eyes 
Of  heaven  and  earth  my  madness  view. 

I  should  have  seen,  through  earth  and  skies, 
But  you  alone — but  only  you  ! 

Did  not  a  frown  from  you  reprove, 
Myriads  of  eyes  to  me  were  none  ; 

I  should  have — oh,  my  only  love  ! 
My  life  !  what  should  I  not  have  done  ? 


Well,  peace  to  thy  heart,  though  another's  it  be, 
And  health  to  thy  cheek,  though  it  bloom  not  for  me ! 
To-morrow  I  sail  for  those  cinnamon  groves, 
Where  nightly  the  ghost  of  the  Carribee  roves. 
And,  far  from  thine  eye,  oh  !  perhaps,  I  may  yet 
Its  allurement  forgive  and  its  splendour  forget  ! 
Farewell  to  Bermuda,  and  long  may  the  bloom 
Of  the  lemon  and  myrtle  its  valleys  perfume; 
May  spring  to  eternity  hallow  the  shade, 
Where  Ariel  has  warbled  and  Waller  has  stray'd  ! 
And  thou — when,  at  dawn,  thou  shalt  happen  to  roam 
Through  the  lime-cover'd  alley  that  leads  to  thy  home, 
Where  oft,  when  the  dance  and  the  revel  were  done, 
And  the  stars  were  beginning  to  fade  in  the  sun, 
I  have  led  thee  along,  and  have  told  by  the  way 
What  my  heart  all  the  night  had  been  burning  to  say — 
Oh  !  think  of  the  past — give  a  sigh  to  those  times, 
And  a  blessing  for  me  to  that  alley  of  limes  ! 


If  I  were  yonder  wave,  my  dear. 
And  thou  the  isle  it  clasps  around, 

I  would  not  let  a  foot  come  near 
My  land  of  bliss,  my  fairy  ground 


ODES  TO  NEA.  171 

If  I  were  yonder  couch  of  gold, 

And  thou  the  pearl  within  it  placed, 

I  would  not  let  an  eye  behold 
The  sacred  gem  my  arms  embraced  ! 

If  I  were  yonder  orange-tree, 
And  thou  the  blossom  blooming  there. 

I  would  not  yield  a  breath  of  thee. 
To  scent  the  most  imploring  air  ! 

Oh  !  bend  not  o'er  the  water's  brink, 

Give  not  the  wave  that  rosy  sigh. 
Nor  let  its  burning  mirror  drink 

The  soft  reflection  of  thine  eye. 

That  glossy  hair,  that  glowing  cheek, 
Upon  the  billows  pour  their  beam 

So  warmly,  that  my  soul  could  seek 
Its  Nea  in  the  painted  stream. 

Behold  the  leafy  mangrove,  bending 

O'er  the  waters  blue  and  bright, 
Like  Nea's  silky  lashes,  lending 

Shadow  to  her  eyes  of  light  ! 

0  my  beloved  !  where'er  I  turn, 

Some  trace  of  thee  enchants  mine  eyes. 
In  every  star  thy  glances  burn, 
Thy  blush  on  every  floweret  lies. 

1  pray  thee,  on  those  lips  of  thine 
To  wear  this  rosy  leaf  for  me, 

And  breathe  of  something  not  divine. 
Since  nothing  human  breathes  of  thee  ! 


172  ODES  TO  NEA. 

All  other  charms  of  thine  I  meet 
In  nature,  but  thy  sigh  alone  ; 

Then  take,  oh  !  take,  though  not  so  sweet, 
The  breath  of  roses  for  thine  own  ! 

So,  while  I  walk  the  flowery  grove. 

The  bud  that  gives,  through  morning  dew, 
The  luster  of  the  lips  I  love. 

May  seem  to  give  their  perfume  too  ! 


There's  not  a  look,  a  word  of  thine 

My  soul  has  e'er  forgot ; 
Thou  ne'er  hast  bid  a  ringlet  shine, 
Nor  given  thy  locks  one  graceful  twine, 

Which  I  remember  not ! 

There  never  yet  a  murmur  fell 
From  that  beguiling  tongue. 
Which  did  not,  with  a  lingering  spell, 
Upon  my  charmed  senses  dwell, 
Like  something  heaven  had  sung. 

Ah  !  that  I  could,  at  once,  forget 

All,  all  that  haunts  me  so — 
And  yet,  thou  witching  girl  ! — and  yet, 
To  die  were  sweeter  than  to  let 
The  loved  remembrance  go  ! 

No  ;  if  this  slighted  heart  must  see 

Its  faithful  pulse  decay, 
Oh  !  let  it  die,  remembering  thee, 
And,  like  the  burnt  aroma,  be 

Consumed  in  sweets  away  ! 


Ji 


THE  DA  V  OF  LO  VE.  173 

AT  NIGHT. 

At  night,  when  all  is  still  around, 
How  sweet  to  hear  the  distant  sound 

Of  footstep,  coming  soft  and  light ! 
What  pleasure  in  the  anxious  beat 
With  which  the  bosom  flies  to  meet 

That  foot  that  comes  so  soft  at  night  ! 

And  then,  at  night,  how  sweet  to  say, 
"  'Tis  late,  my  love  !  "  and  chide  delay, 

Though  still  the  western  clouds  are  bright; 
Oh  !  happy,  too,  the  silent  press. 
The  eloquence  of  mute  caress. 

With  those  we  love  exchanged  at  night ! 

THE  DAY  OF  LOVE. 

The  beam  of  morning  trembling 

Stole  o'er  the  mountain  brook, 
With  timid  ray  resembling 

Affection's  early  look, 
Thus  love  begins — sweet  morn  of  love  ! 

The  noontide  ray  ascended. 

And  o'er  the  valley's  stream 
Diffused  a  glow  as  splendid 

As  passion's  riper  dream. 
Thus  love  expands — warm  noon  of  love  ! 

But  evening  came,  o'ershading 

The  glories  of  the  sky, 
Like  faith  and  fondness  fading 

From  passion's  alter'd  eye. 
Thus  love  declines — cold  eve  of  love  ! 


174  BLACK  AND  BLUE  EYES, 

SMILES  AND  TEARS. 

When  midst  the  gay  I  meet 

That  blessed  smile  of  thine, 
Though  still  on  me  it  turns  most  sweet, 

I  scarce  can  call  it  mine  : 
But  when  to  me  alone 

Your  secret  tears  you  show, 
Oh  !  then  I  feel  those  tears  my  own, 

And  claim  them  while  they  flow. 
Then  still  with  bright  looks  bless 

The  gay,  the  cold,  the  free  ; 
.   Give  smiles  to  those  who  love  you  less. 

But  keep  your  tears  for  me. 

The  snow  on  Jura's  steep 

Can  smile  with  many  a  beam. 
Yet  still  in  chains  of  coldness  sleep, 

How  bright  soe'er  it  seem. 
But  when  some  deep-felt  ray, 

Whose  touch  is  fire,  appears, 
Oh,  then,  the  smile  is  warm'd  away, 

And,  melting,  turns  to  tears. 
Then  still  with  bright  looks  bless 

The  gay,  the  cold,  the  free  ; 
Give  smiles  to  those  who  love  you  less. 

But  keep  your  tears  for  me. 

BLACK  AND  BLUE  EYES. 

The  brilliant  black  eye 
May  in  triumph  let  fly 
All  its  darts  without  caring  who  feels  'em 
But  the  soft  eye  of  blue, 
lhous[h  it  scatter  wounds  too. 


LOVE  AND  TIME.  175 

Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em  ; 

Dear  Fanny  ! 

The  soft  eye  of  blue, 

Though  it  scatter  wounds  too, 
Is  much  better  pleased  when  it  heals  'em. 

The  black  eye  may  say, 

' '  Come  and  worship  my  ray — 
''  By  adoring,  perhaps,  you  may  move  me  !  " 

But  the  blue  eye,  half  hid, 

Says,  from  under  its  lid — 
"  I  love,  and  am  yours,  if  you  love  me  ! '' 

Dear  Fanny  ! 

The  blue  eye,  half  hid. 

Says,  from  under  its  lid — 
"  I  love,  and  am  yours,  if  you  love  me  I  '' 

Then  tell  me,  oh,  why, 

In  that  lovely  blue  eye, 
Not  a  charm  of  its  tint  I  discover  ; 

Or  why  should  you  wear 

The  only  blue  pair 
That  ever  said  "  No  "  to  a  lover  ? 

Dear  Fanny  ! 

Oh,  why  should  you  wear 

The  only  blue  pair 
That  ever  said  "  No  "  to  a  lover  ? 

LOVE  AND  TIME. 

'Tis  said — but  whether  true  or  not 
Let  bards  declare  who've  seen  'em — 

That  Love  and  Time  have  only  got 
One  pair  of  wings  between  'em. 


176  THE  CASTILIAN  MAID. 

In  courtship's  first  delicious  hour, 

The  boy  full  well  can  spare  'em  ; 
So,  loitering  in  his  lady's  bower, 
He  lets  the  greybeard  wear  'em. 
Then  is  Time's  hour  of  play  ; 
Oh,  how  he  flies  away  ! 

But  short  the  moments,  short  as  bright, 

When  he  the  wings  can  borrow  ; 
If  Time  to-day  has  had  its  flight, 

Love  takes  his  turn  to-morrow. 
Ah  !  Time  and  Love,  your  change  is  then 

The  saddest  and  most  trying. 
When  one  begins  to  limp  again, 

And  t'other  takes  to  flying. 
Then  is  Love's  hour  to  stray  ; 
Oh,  how  he  flies  away  ! 

But  there's  a  nymph,  whose  chains  I  feel, 

And  bless  the  silken  fetter. 
Who  knows,  the  dear  one,  how  to  deal 

With  Love  and  Time  much  better. 
So  well  she  checks  their  wanderings, 

So  peacefully  she  pairs  'em, 
That  Love  with  her  ne'er  thinks  of  wings, 

And  Time  for  ever  wears  'em. 
This  is  Time's  holiday  ; 
Oh,  how  he  flies  away  ! 


THE  CASTILIAN  MAID. 

Oh,  remember  the  time,  in  La  Mancha's  shades, 
When  our  moments  so  blissfully  flew ; 

When  you  call'd  me  the  flower  of  Castilian  maids, 
And  I  blushed  to  be  called  so  by  you  ; 


DEAR  FANNY.  177 

^Mien  I  taught  you  to  warble  the  gay  seguadille ; 

And  to  dance  to  the  light  castanet ; 
O,  never,  dear  youth,  let  you  roam  where  you  will, 

The  delight  of  those  moments  forget. 


They  tell  me,  you  lovers  from  Erin's  green  isle 

Every  hour  a  new  passion  can  feel, 
And  that  soon,  in  the  light  of  some  lovelier  smile, 

You'll  forget  the  poor  maid  of  Castile. 
But  they  know  not  how  brave  in  the  battle  you  are, 

Or  they  never  could  think  you  would  rove  ; 
For  'tis  always  the  spirit  most  gallant  in  war 

That  is  fondest  and  truest  in  love. 


DEAR  FANNY. 

*'  She  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep  your  heart 
cool  ! 
She  has  wit,  but  you  mustn't  be  caught  so  :  " 
Thus  Reason  advises,  but  Reason's  a  fool, 
And  'tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so ; 

Dear  Fanny, 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so. 


'•  She  is  lovely  ;  then  love  her,  nor  let  the  bliss  fly 

'Tis  the  charm  of  youth's  vanishing  season  :  " 
Thus  Love  has  advised  me,  and  who  will  deny 
That  Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason  ? 

Dear  Fanny, 
Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason. 

361 


178  FLOW  ON,   THOU  SHINING  RIVER. 

DID  NOT. 

'TwAS  a  new  feeling — something  more 
Than  we  had  dared  to  own  before, 

Which  then  we  hid  not,  which  then  we  hid  not. 
We  saw  it  in  each  other's  eye, 
And  wish'd,  in  every  murmur'd  sigh, 

To  speak,  but  did  not ;  to  speak,  but  did  not. 

She  felt  my  lips'  impassion'd  touch — 
'Twas  the  first  time  I  had  dared  so  much, 

And  yet  she  chid  not,  and  yet  she  chid  not  ; 
But  whisper'd  o'er  my  burning  brow, 
"  O  !  do  you  doubt  I  love  you  now  ?  " 

Bweet  soul  !  I  did  not ;  sweet  soul  !  I  did  not. 

Warmly  I  felt  her  bosom  thrill, 

I  press'd  it  closer,  closer  still, 
Though  gently  bid  not,  though  gently  bid  not ; 

Till — oh  !  the  world  hath  seldom  heard 

Of  lovers,  who  so  nearly  err'd, 
And  yet  who  did  not,  and  yet  who  did  not. 

FLOW  ON,  THOU  SHINING  RIVER. 

Flow  on,  thou  shining  river  ; 

But  ere  thou  reach  the  sea. 
Seek  Ella's  bower,  and  give  her 

The  wreaths  I  fling  o'er  thee. 
And  tell  her  thus,  if  she'll  be  mine, 

The  current  of  our  lives  shall  be. 
With  joys  along  their  course  to  shine, 

Like  those  sweet  flowers  on  thee. 


WHEN  FIRST  WE  LOVED.  179 

But  if.  in  wandering  thither, 

Thou  find'st  she  mocks  my  prayer, 
Then  leave  those  wreaths  to  wither 

Upon  the  cold  bank  there. 
And  tell  her — thus,  when  youth  is  o'er, 

Her  lone  and  loveless  charms  shall  be 
Thrown  by  upon  life's  weedy  shore, 

Like  those  sweet  flowers  from  thee. 


OH!    NO— NOT    E'EN    WHEN    FIRST    WE 
LOVED. 

Oh  !  no — not  e'en  when  first  we  loved, 

Wert  thou  as  dear  as  now  thou  art  ; 
Thy  beauty  then  my  senses  moved, 

But  now  thy  virtues  bind  my  heart. 
What  was  but  Passion's  sigh  before. 

Has  since  been  turned  to  Reason's  vow  ; 
And,  though  I  then  might  love  thee  more, 

Trust  me,  I  love  thee  better  now. 

Although  my  heart  in  earlier  youth 

Might  kindle  with  more  wild  desire, 
Believe  me,  it  has  gained  in  truth 

Much  more  than  it  has  lost  in  fire. 
The  flame  now  warms  my  inmost  core. 

That  then  but  sparkled  o'er  my  brow  ; 
And,  though  I  seem'd  to  love  thee  more, 

Yet,  oh  !  I  love  thee  better  now. 


i8o  GO,   THE h^— 'TIS  VAIN. 

THEN,  FARE  THEE  WELL  ! 

Then,  fare  thee  well  !  my  own  dear  love, 

This  world  has  now  for  us 
No  greater  grief,  no  pain  above 
The  pain  of  parting  thus,  dear  love  !  the  pain  of  parting 
thus  ! 

Had  we  but  known,  since  first  we  met, 

Some  few  short  hours  of  bliss, 
We  might,  in  numbering  them,  forget 
The  deep,  deep  pain  of  this,  dear  love  !  the  deep,  deep 
pain  of  this. 

But,  no,  alas  !  we've  never  seen 

One  glimpse  of  pleasure's  ray, 
But  still  there  came  some  cloud  between. 
And  chased  it  all  away,  dear  love  !    and  chased  it  alj 

away  ! 

Yet,  e'en  could  those  sad  moments  last, 

Far  dearer  to  my  heart 
Were  hours  of  grief,  together  past, 
Than  years  of  mirth   apart,   dear   love  !    than  years   of 

mirth  apart. 

Farewell !  our  hope  was  born  in  fears, 

And  nursed  'mid  vain  regrets  ! 
Like  winter  suns,  it  rose  in  tears, 
Like  them  in  tears  it  sets,  dear  love  !  like  them  it  tears  it 

sets ! 

GO,  THEN— 'TIS  VAIN. 

Go,  then — 'tis  vain  to  hover 

Thus  around  a  hope  that's  dead — 

At  length  my  dream  is  over, 

'Twas  sweet — 'twas  false — 'tis  fled  ! 


/  CAN  NO  LONGER  STIFLE.         i8i 

Farewell,  since  nought  it  moves  thee, 

Such  truth  as  mine  to  see, — 
Some  one  who  far  less  loves  thee, 

Perhaps  more  bless'd  will  be. 

Farewell,  sweet  eyes,  whose  brightness 

New  life  around  rae  shed  ! 
Farewell,  false  heart,  whose  lightness 

Now  leaves  me  death  instead  ! 
Go,  now,  those  charms  surrender 

To  some  new  lover's  sigh, 
One  who,  though  far  less  tender, 

May  be  more  bless'd  than  I. 


I  CAN  NO  LONGER  STIFLE. 

I  CAN  no  longer  stifle, 
How  much  I  long  to  rifle 

That  little  part 

They  call  the  heart 
Of  you,  you  lovely  trifle  ! 
You  can  no  longer  doubt  it  i 
So  let  me  be  about  it ; 

Or  on  my  word, 

And  by  the  Lord, 
I'll  try  to  do  without  it. 

This  pretty  thing's  as  light,  sir, 

As  any  paper  kite,  sir, 
And  here  and  there. 
And  God  knows  where 

She  takes  her  wheeling  flight,  sir. 


i82  JO  YS  THA  T  PASS  A  WA  Y. 

Us  lovers,  to  amuse  us, 
Unto  her  tail  she  nooses  ; 
There  hung  like  bobs 
Of  straw,  or  nobs, 
She  whisks  us  where  she  chooses. 


ROW  GENTLY  HERE. 

Row  gently  here,  my  gondolier  ;  so  softly  wake  the  tide, 
That  not  an  ear  on  earth  may  hear,  but  hers  to  whom  we 

glide, 
Had  Heaven  but  tongues  to  speak,  as  well  as  starry  eyes 

to  see, 
Oh  !  think  what  tales  'twould  have  to  tell  of  wand'ring 

youths  like  me  ! 

Now  rest  thee  here,  my  gondolier ;  hush,  hush,  for  up  I 

To  climb  yon  light  balcony's  height,  while  thou  keep'st 

watch  below. 
Ah  !  did  we  take  for  Heaven  above  but  half  such  pains 

as  we 
Take  day  and  night  for  woman's  love,  what  angels  we 

should  be  ! 

JOYS  THAT  PASS  AWAY. 

Joys  that  pass  away  like  this, 
Alas  !  are  purchased  dear, 
If  every  beam  of  bliss 

Is  followed  by  a  tear. 
Fare  thee  well !  oh,  fare  thee  well  ! 
Soon,  too  soon,  tbou'st  broke  the  spell. 


LITTLE  MARY'S  EYE.  183 

Oh  I  I  ne'er  can  love  again 

The  girl  whose  faithless  art 
Could  break  so  dear  a  chain, 

And  with  it  break  my  heart. 

Once,  when  truth  was  in  those  eyes, 

How  beautiful  they  shone  ; 
But  now  that  lustre  flies, 

For  truth,  alas  !  is  gone. 
Fare  thee  well  !  oh,  fare  thee  well  ! 
How  I've  loved  my  hate  shall  tell. 

Oh  !  how  lorn,  how  lost  would  prove 

Thy  wretched  victim's  fate, 
If,  when  deceived  in  love. 
He  could  not  fly  to  hate  ! 


LITTLE  MARY'S  EYE. 

Little  Mary's  eye 

Is  roguish,  and  all  that,  sir  ; 
But  her  little  tongue 

Is  quite  too  full  of  chat,  sir. 
Since  her  eye  can  speak 

Enough  to  tell  her  blisses, 
If  she  stir  her  tongue, 

^Yhy — stop  her  mouth  with  kisses  ! 
Oh  !  the  little  girls. 

Wily,  warm,  and  winning  ; 
^Vhen  angels  tempt  us  to  it, 

Who  can  keep  from  sinning  ? 

Nanny's  beaming  eye 

Looks  as  warm  as  any  ; 
But  her  cheek  was  pale — 

Well-a-day,  poor  Nann}- 1 


i84  HOW  SHALL  I  WOO  ? 

Nanny,  in  the  field, 

She  pluck'd  a  little  posie, 

And  Nanny's  pallid  cheek 
Soon  grew  sleek  and  rosy. 


Sue,  the  pretty  nun. 

Prays  with  warm  emotion  ; 
Sweetly  rolls  her  eye 

In  love  or  in  devotion. 
If  her  pious  heart 

Softens  to  relieve  you, 
She  gently  shares  the  crime, 

With  "  Oh  !  may  God  forgive  you  !  '* 
Oh  !  the  little  girls, 

Wily,  warm,  and  winning  ; 
When  angels  tempt  us  to  it, 

Who  can  keep  from  sinning  ? 


HOW  SHALL  I  WOO? 

If  I  speak  to  thee  in  friendship's  name, 

Thou  think'st  I  speak  too  coldly ; 
If  I  mention  Love's  devoted  flame, 

Thou  say'st  I  speak  too  boldly. 
Between  these  two  unequal  fires 

Why  doom  me  thus  to  hover  ? 
I'm  a  friend,  if  such  thy  heart  requires, 

If  more  thou  seek'st,  a  lover. 
Which  shall  it  be  ?     How  shall  I  woo  ? 
Fair  one,  choose  between  the  two. 

Tho'  the  wings  of  Love  will  brightly  play, 
When  first  he  comes  to  woo  thee, 

There's  a  chance  that  he  may  fly  away 
As  fast  as  he  flies  to  thee. 


WHEN  ON  THE  LIP.  185 

While  Friendship,  tho'  on  foot  she  come, 

No  flights  of  fancy  trying, 
Will,  therefore,  oft  be  found  at  home, 

When  Love  abroad  is  flying. 
Which  shall  it  be  ?     How  shall  I  woo  ? 
Dear  one,  choose  between  the  two. 

If  neither  feeling  suits  thy  heart, 

Let's  see,  to  please  thee,  whether 
We  may  not  learn  some  precious  art 

To  mix  their  charms  together  ; 
One  feeling,  still  more  sweet,  to  form 

From  two  so  sweet  already — 
A  friendship  that  like  love  is  warm, 

A  love  like  friendship  steady. 
Thus  let  it  be,  thus  let  me  woo, 
Dearest,  thus  we'll  join  the  two. 


WHEN  ON  THE  LIP  THE  SIGH  DELAYS. 

When  on  the  lip  the  sigh  delays, 

As  if  'twould  linger  there  forever  ; 
When  eyes  would  give  the  world  to  gaze, 

Yet  still  look  down,  and  venture  never  ; 
When,  though  with  fairest  nymphs  we  rove, 

There's  one  we  dream  of  more  than  any — • 
If  all  this  is  not  real  love, 

'Tis  something  wondrous  like  it,  Fanny  ! 

To  think  and  ponder,  when  apart, 
On  all  we've  got  to  say  at  meeting  ; 

And  yet  when  near,  with  heart  to  heart, 
Sit  mute,  and  listen  to  their  beating ; 


i86  THE  SIREN'S  SONG. 

To  see  but  one  bright  object  move, 

The  only  moon,  where  stars  are  many — • 

If  all  this  is  not  downright  love, 
I  prithee  say  what  is,  my  Fanny  ! 

When  Hope  foretells  the  brightest,  best. 

Though  Reason  on  the  darkest  reckons  ; 
\Vhen  Passion  drives  us  to  the  west, 

Though  Prudence  to  the  eastward  beckons ; 
When  all  turns  round,  below,  above. 

And  our  own  heads  the  most  of  any — 
If  this  is  not  stark,  staring  love, 

Then  you  and  I  are  sages,  Fanny. 


Lyrics  from  "  Lalla  Rookh^ 


THE  SIREN'S  SONG. 
{From  '^  The  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan.'') 

A  Spirit  there  is,  whose  fragrant  sigh 
Is  burning  now  through  earth  and  air  ; 

Where  cheeks  are  blushing,  the  Spirit  is  nigh. 
Where  lips  are  meeting,  the  Spirit  is  there  ! 

Plis  breath  is  the  soul  of  flowers  like  these, 
And  his  floating  eyes — oh  !  they  resemble 

Blue  water-lilies  when  the  breeze 

Is  making  the  stream  around  them  tremble  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  kindling  power  ! 

Spirit  of  Love,  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
The  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this. 


THE  SONG  OF  FERAMORZ.  187 

By  the  fair  and  brave, 

WTio  blushing  unite, 
Like  the  sun  and  wave, 

When  they  meet  at  night  ! 

By  the  tear  that  shows 

-  When  passion  is  nigh, 
As  the  raindrop  flows 

From  the  heat  of  the  sky  ! 

By  the  first  love-beat 

Of  the  youthful  heart, 
By  the  bhss  to  meet, 

And  the  pain  to  part  ! 

By  all  that  thou  hast 

To  mortals  given, 
WTiich — oh  !  could  it  last, 

This  earth  were  heaven  ! 

We  call  thee  hither,  entrancing  Power  I 

Spirit  of  Love  !  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this. 


THE  SONG  OF  FERAMORZ. 
Tell  me  not  of  joys  above, 

If  that  world  can  give  no  bliss. 
Truer,  happier  than  the  love 

W^hich  enslaves  our  souls  in  this  ! 

Tell  me  not  of  Houris'  eyes  : — 
Far  from  me  their  dangerous  glow, 

If  those  looks  that  light  the  skies 
Wound  like  some  that  burn  below  ! 


THE  ENCHANTRESS'S  GARLAND. 

Who  that  feels  what  love  is  here, 
All  its  falsehood — all  its  pain — 

Would,  for  even  Elysium's  sphere, 
Risk  the  fatal  dream  again? 

Who  that  midst  a  desert's  heat 

Sees  the  waters  fade  away, 
Would  not  rather  die  than  meet 

Streams  again  as  false  as  they  ? 


THE  ENCHANTRESS'S  GARLAND. 

{From  "  The  Light  of  the  Hat  em:') 

I  KNOW  where  the  wing'd  visions  dwell 

That  around  the  night-bed  play  ; 
I  know  each  herb  and  floweret's  bell, 
Where  they  hide  their  wings  by  day. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

The  image  oflove  that  nightly  flies 

To  visit  the  bashful  maid, 
Steals  from  the  jasmine  flower,  that  sighs 

Its  soul,  like  her,  in  the  shade. 
The  hope,  in  dreams,  of  a  happier  hour 

That  alights  on  misery's  brow, 
Springs  out  of  the  silvery  almond-flower, 

That  blooms  on  a  leafless  bough. 
Then  hasten  we,  maid. 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 


LA  V  OF  THE  FLO  WER-SPIRLT.      \\ 

The  visions  that  oft  to  worldly  eyes 

The  glitter  of  mines  unfold 
Inhabit  the  mountain-herb  that  dyes 

The  tooth  of  the  fawn  like  gold. 
The  phantom  shapes — oh  touch  not  them — 

That  appal  the  murderer's  sight, 
Lurk  in  the  fleshly  mandrake's  stem, 

That  shrieks  when  torn  at  night  ! 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 

The  dream  of  the  injured,  patient  mind, 

That  smiles  at  the  wrongs  of  men. 
Is  found  in  the  bruised  and  wounded  rind 
Of  the  cinnamon,  sweetest  then  ! 
Then  hasten  we,  maid, 
To  twine  our  braid, 
To-morrow  the  dreams  and  flowers  will  fade. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  FLOWER- SPIRIT. 
{Ficm  "  The  Light  of  the  Haj-em.'') 

From  Chindara's  warbling  fount  I  come, 

Call'd  by  that  moonlight  garland's  spell ; 
From  Chindara's  fount,  my  fairy  home. 

Where  in  music  morn  and  night  I  dwell. 
Where  lutes  in  the  air  are  heard  about. 

And  voices  are  singing  the  whole  day  long, 
And  every  sigh  the  heart  breathes  out 

Is  turn'd,  as  it  leaves  the  lips,  to  song. 
Hither  I  come 
From  my  fairy  home, 

And  if  there's  a  magic  in  music's  strain. 


190     LA  Y  OF  THE  FLO  IVER-SPIRIT, 

I  swear  by  the  breath 
Of  that  moonlight  wreath 

Thy  lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again. 
For  mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats, 
And  mine  are  the  murmuring,  dying  notes, 
That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea, 
And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly  ! 
And  the  passionate  strain  that,  deeply  going, 

Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through, 
As  the  musk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing, 

Ruffles  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too  ! 

Mine  is  the  charm  whose  mystic  sway 
The  spirits  of  past  delight  obey  ; — 
Let  but  the  tuneful  talisman  sound, 
And  they  come,  like  genii,  hovering  round. 
And  mine  is  the  gentle  song  that  bears 

From  soul  to  soul  the  wishes  of  love. 
As  a  bird  that  wafts  through  genial  airs 

The  cinnamon  seed  from  grove  to  grove. 

'Tis  I  that  mingle  in  one  sweet  measure 
The  past,  the  present,  the  future  of  pleasure; 
When  memory  links  the  tone  that  is  gone 

With  the  blissful  tone  that's  still  in  the  ear ; 
And  hope  from  a  heavenly  note  flies  on 

To  a  note  more  heavenly  still  that  is  near  ! 

The  \varrior's  heart,  when  touch'd  by  me, 
Can  as  downy  soft  and  as  yielding  be 
As  his  own  white  plume,  that  high  amid  death 
Through   the  field  has  shone — yet   moves   with 

breath. 
And  oh,  how  the  eyes  of  beauty  glisten 

When  music  has  reach'd  her  inward  soul, 
Like  the  silent  stars  that  wink  and  listen 

While  Heaven's  eternal  melodies  roll  I 


THE  GEORGIAN'S  SONG.  191 

So,  hither  I  come 

From  my  fairy  home, 
And  if  there's  a  magic  in  music's  strain. 

I  swear  by  the  breath 

Of  that  moonlight  wreath. 
Thy  lover  shall  sigh  at  thy  feet  again. 


THE  GEORGIAN'S  SONG. 

{Fro?n  "  TJie  Light  of  the  Harem.'") 

Come  hither,  come  hither — by  night  and  by  day 
We  linger  in  pleasures  that  never  are  gone  ; 

Like  the  waves  of  the  summer,  as  one  dies  away, 
Another  as  sweet  and  as  shining  comes  on. 

And  the  love  that  is  o'er,  in  expiring  gives  birth 
To  a  new  one  as  warm,  as  unequall'd  in  bliss  ; 

And  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

Here  maidens  are  sighing,  and  fragrant  their  sigh 
As  the  flower  of  the  Amra  just  oped  by  a  bee  ; 

And  precious  their  tears  as  that  rain  from  the  sky, 
\Miich  turns  into  pearls  as  it  falls  in  the  sea. 

Oh  !  think  what  the  kiss  and  the  smile  must  be  worth, 
When  the  sigh  and  the  tear  are  so  perfect  in  bliss  ; 

And  own,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

Here  sparkles  the  nectar  that,  hallow'd  by  love, 

Could   draw   down   those  angels  of  old  from    their 
sphere. 

"SMio  for  wine  of  this  earth  left  the  fountains  above, 
And  forgot  heaven's  stars  for  the  eyes  we  haveh  ere. 


192  FLY  TO  THE  DESERT. 

And  bless'd  with  the  odour  our  goblets  give  forth, 
What  spirit  the  sweets  of  this  Eden  would  miss  ? 
For  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

nourmahal's  rejoinder. 

There's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told, 
When  two  that  are  link'd  in  one  heavenly  tie, 

With  heart  never  changing  and  brow  never  cold, 
Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till  they  die  ! 

One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 

Whole  ages  of  heartless  and  wandering  bliss  ; 

And  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 
It  is  this,  it  is  this. 


FLY  TO  THE  DESERT. 

{Frotn  "  The  Light  of  the  Harem."") 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me. 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  : 
But  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love  or  thrones  without  ? 

Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
Th'  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 

The  silver-footed  antelope 

As  gracefully  and  gaily  springs 

As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

Then  come — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia  tree, 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
W^ith  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 


FLY  TO  THE  DESERT.  193 

Oh  !  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, — 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  cauglit 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  as  then. 

So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone  ; 
New,  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres. 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years  ! 

Then  fly  with  me, — if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn. 

Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee, 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place  ; — 


Then,  fare-thee-well  ! — I'd  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
"When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine  ! 

362 


194  EVELEEN'S  BOWER. 


EVELEEN'S  BOWER. 

Oh  !  weep  for  the  hour 

When  to  Eveleen's  bower 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  with  false  vows  came ; 

The  moon  hid  her  light 

From  the  heavens  that  night, 
And  wept  behind  the  clouds  o'er  the  maiden's  shame. 

The  clouds  pass'd  soon 

From  the  chaste  old  moon, 
And  heaven  smiled  again  with  her  vestal  flame  : 

But  none  will  see  the  day 

When  the  clouds  shall  pass  away, 
Wliich  that  dark  hour  left  upon  Eveleen's  fame. 

The  white  snow  lay 

On  the  narrow  pathway, 
WTien  the  Lord  of  the  Valley  cross'd  over  the  moor  ; 

And  many  a  deep  print 

On  the  white  snow's  tint 
Show'd  the  track  of  his  footsteps  to  Eveleen's  door. 

The  next  sun's  ray 

Soon  melted  away 
Every  trace  of  the  path  where  the  false  Lord  came ; 

But  there's  a  light  above. 

Which  alone  can  remove 
That  stain  upon  the  snow  of  fair  Eveleen's  fame. 


nn)i0ccnaneou6, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


RICH  AND  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS  SHE 
WORE.* 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 

And  a  bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore  : 

But  oh  !  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 

Her  sparkling  gems  and  snow-white  wand. 

*'  Lady  !  dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray, 

So  lone  and  lovely,  through  this  bleak  way  ? 

Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold, 

As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  ?  " 

"  Sir  knight  !  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm, 

No  son  of  Erin's  will  offer  me  harm  : — 

For  though  they  love  women  and  golden  store, 

Sir  knight !  they  love  honour  and  virtue  more  !  " 

*  This  ballad  is  founded  upon  the  following  anecdote:— "The 
peoiile  were  inspired  with  such  a  spirit  of  honour,  virtue,  and 
religion,  by  the  great  example  of  Brian,  and  by  his  excellent 
administration,  that,  as  a  proof  of  it,  we  are  "informed  that 
a  young  lady  of  great  beauty,  adorned  with  jewels  and  a  costly 
dress,  undertook  a  journey  alone  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom 
to  the  other,  with  a  wand  only  in  her  hand,  at  the  top  of  which 
was  a  ring  of  exceeding  great  value ;  and  such  an  impression 
had  the  laws  and  government  of  this  monarch  made  on  the 
minds  of  all  the  people,  that  no  attempt  was  made  upon  her 
honour,  nor  was  she  robbed  of  her  clothes  or  jewels." — Warner's 
Riitory  of  Ireland,  vol  i.,  book  10. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE   WATERS. 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  green  isle  : 
And  blessed  for  ever  is  she  who  relied 
Upon  Erin's  honour,  and  Erin's  pride. 


AS  A  BEAM  O'ER  THE  FACE  OF  THE 
WATERS. 

As  a  beam  o'er  the  face  of  the  waters  may  glow, 
While  the  tide  runs  in  darkness  and  coldness  below, 
So  the  cheek  may  be  ting'd  with  a  warm  sunny  smile, 
Though  the  cold  heart  to  ruin  runs  darkly  the  while. 

One  fatal  remembrance,  one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes, 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  or  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  has  no  balm  and  affliction  no  sting  ! 

Oh  !  this  thought  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment  will  stay, 
Like  a  dead,  leafless  branch  in  the  summer's  bright  ray 
The  beams  of  the  warm  sun  play  round  it  in  vain, 
It  may  smile  in  his  light,  but  it  blooms  not  again. 


* 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet ; 
Oh  !  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 


THE  SONG  OF  FIONNULA.  199 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 
'Twas  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh  !  no — it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'Twas  that  friends,  the  belov'd  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
WTien  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Where   the   storms    that   we    feel  in   this   cold  world 

should  cease. 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 


THE  SONG  OF  FIONNULA.* 

Silent,  oh  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy  water, 

Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 
While  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir's  lonely  daughter, 

Tells  to  the  night-star  her  tale  of  woes. 
When  shall  the  swan,  her  death-note  singing, 

Sleep,  with  wings  in  darkness  furl'd  ? 
When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bells  ringing. 

Call  my  spirit  from  this  stormy  world  ? 

Sadly,  oh  Moyle,  to  thy  winter-wave  weeping. 
Fate  bids  me  languish  long  ages  away  ; 

Yet  still  in  her  darkness  doth  Erin  lie  sleeping, 
Yet  still  doth  the  pure  light  its  dawning  delay. 

*  Fionnula,  the  daughter  of  Lir,  was  by  some  supernatural 
power  transformed  into  a  swan,  and  condemned  to  wander,  for 
many  hundred  years,  over  certain  lakes  and  rivers  of  Ireland, 
till  the  coming  of  Christianity :  when  the  first  sound  of  the 
mass-bell  was  to  be  the  signal  of  her  release. 


ON  MUSIC 

When  will  that  day-star,  mildly  springing, 
Warm  our  isle  with  peace  and  love  ? 

When  will  heaven,  its  sweet  bells  ringing, 
Call  my  spirit  to  the  fields  above  ?, 


ON  MUSIC. 

When  thro'  life  unblest  we  rove, 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear, 
Should  some  notes  we  us'd  to  love, 

In  days  of  boyhood,  meet  our  ear. 
Oh  !  how  welcome  breathes  the  strain  ! 

Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept  ! 
Kindling  former  smiles  again 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept. 

Like  the  gale,  that  sighs  along 

Beds  of  oriental  flowers, 
Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song. 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours  ; 
Fill'd  with  balm,  the  gale  sighs  on. 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death  ; 
So,  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone. 

Its  memory  lives  in  Music's  breath  ! 

Music  !  oh  how  faint,  how  weak. 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 
Why  should  Feeling  ever  speak. 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 
Friendship's  balmy  words  may  feign. 

Love's  are  ev'n  more  false  than  they  ; 
Oh  !  'tis  only  Music's  strain 

Can  sweetly  soothe,  and  not  betray  1 


IT  IS  NOT  THE  TEAR.  2c 

IT  IS  NOT  THE  TEAR  AT  THIS  MOMENT 
SHED. 

It  is  not  the  tear  at  this  moment  shed, 

When  the  cold  turf  has  just  been  laid  o'er  him, 
That  can  tell  how  belov'd  was  the  friend  that's  fled. 

Or  how  deep  in  our  hearts  we  deplore  him. 
'Tis  the  tear,  thro'  many  a  long  day  wept, 

'Tis  life's  whole  path  o'ershaded  ; 
'Tis  the  one  remembrance,  fondly  kept, 

When  all  lighter  griefs  have  faded. 

Thus  his  memory,  like  some  holy  light, 

Kept  alive  in  our  hearts,  will  improve  them, 
For  worth  shall  look  fairer,  and  truth  more  bright. 

When  we  think  how  he  liv'd  but  to  love  them  ! 
And,  as  fresher  flowers  the  sod  perfume, 

Where  buried  saints  are  lying, 
So  our  hearts  shall  borrow  a  sweet'ning  bloom 

From  the  image  he  left  there  in  dying  ! 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARR 

'Tis  believ'd  that  this  Harp,  which  I  wake  now  for  thee. 
Was  a  Siren  of  old,  who  sung  under  the  sea  , 
And  who  often  at  eve  thro'  the  bright  waters  rov'd, 
To  meet  on  the  green  shore  a  youth  whom  she  lov'd. 

But  she  lov'd  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep. 
And  in  tears,  all  the  night,  her  gold  tresses  to  steep. 
Till  Heaven  look'd  with  pity  on  true  love  so  warm. 
And  chang'd  to  this  soft  Harp  the  sea-maiden's  form. 


202  'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER. 

Still   her   bosom    rose    fair— still   her   cheek   smil'd   the 

same — 
While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  form'd  the  light  frame  : 
And  her  hair,  as,  let  loose,  o'er  her  white  arm  it  fell. 
Was  chang'd  to  bright  chords,  uttering  melody's  spell. 

Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  Harp  so  long  hath  been 

known 
To  mingle  love's  language  with  sorrow's  sad  tone  : 
Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay. 
To  be  love  when  I'm  near  thee,  and  grief  when  away  ! 


'TIS  THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER. 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flow'r  of  her  kindred, 

No  rose-bud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  J 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them  ; 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  thy  bed. 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 


TAKE  BA  CK  THE  VIRGIX  PA  GE.     203 

So  soon  may  I  follow, 

\Vhen  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away  I 
WTien  true  hearts  lie  wither'd, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh  !  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 


HOW  DEAR  TO  ME  THE  HOUR. 

How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  daylight  dies. 
And  sunbeams  melt  along  the  silent  sea, 

For  then  sweet  dreams  of  other  days  arise, 
And  memory  breathes  her  vesper  sigh  to  thee. 

And,  as  I  watch  the  line  of  light  that  plays 

Along  the  smooth  wave  tow'rd  the  burning  west, 

I  long  to  tread  that  golden  path  of  rays, 

And  think  'twould  lead  to  some  bright  isle  of  rest. 


TAKE  BACK  THE  VIRGIN  PAGE. 

Take  back  the  virgin  page, 

\\Tiite  and  unwritten  still, 
Some  hand  more  calm  and  sage 

The  leaf  must  fill. 
Thoughts  come  as  pure  as  light, 

Pure  as  even  yen  require  : 
But  oh  !  each  word  I  write 

Love  turns  to  fire. 


204  FARE  WELL. 

Yet  let  me  keep  the  book  ; 

Oft  shall  my  heart  renew, 
When  on  its  leaves  I  look, 

Dear  thoughts  of  you. 
Like  you,  'tis  fair  and  bright ; 

Like  you,  too  bright  and  fair, 
To  let  wild  passion  write 

One  wrong  wish  there  ! 

Haply,  when  from  those  eyes 

Far,  far  away  I  roam, 
Should  calmer  thoughts  arise 

Tow'rds  you  and  home  ; 
Fancy  may  trace  some  line 

Worthy  those  eyes  to  meet. 
Thoughts  that  not  burn,  but  shine, 

Pure,  calm,  and  sweet. 

And  as,  o'er  ocean  far, 

Seamen  their  records  keep, 
Led  by  some  hidden  star 

Through  the  cold  deep  ; 
So  may  the  words  I  write 

Tell  thro'  what  storms  I  stray, 
You  still  the  unseen  light 

Guiding  my  way. 


FAREWELL  !  BUT  WHENEVER  YOU 
WELCOME  THE  HOUR. 

Farewell  !  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 
Which  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your  bow'r. 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcom'd  it  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  grief  to  be  happy  with  you. 


AO.  NOT  MORE   WELCOME.         205 

His  griefs  may  return,  not  a  hope  may  remain, 
Of  the  few  that  have  brighten'd  his  pathway  of  pain. 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  his  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  ling'ring  with  you. 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright. 
My  soul,  happy  friends  !  shall  be  with  you  that  night ; 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports  and  your  wiles. 
And  return  to  me,  beaming  all  o'er  with  your  smiles  ! — 
Too  blest,  if  it  tells  me,  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer. 
Some   kind   voice   had    murmur'd,     "  I    wish    he    were 
here  !  " 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy  ; 
"Which  come,  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  us'd  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  fill'd  ! 
Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distill'd — 
You  may  break,  you  may  rain  the  vase  if  you  will. 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 


NO,  NOT  MORE  WELCOME  THE  FAIRY 

NUMBERS. 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers 

Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper's  ear, 
When,  half-awaking  from  fearful  slumbers, 

He  thinks  the  full  choir  of  heaven  is  near, — 
Than  came  that  voice,  when,  all  forsaken, 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain. 
Nor  thouglit  its  cold  pulse  wouM  ever  waken 

To  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 


2o6         /  SA  W  FROM  THE  BEACH. 

Sweet  voice  of  comfort !  'twas  like  the  stealing 

Of  summer  wind  thro'  some  wreathed  shell ; 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 

Of  all  my  soul  echoed  to  its  spell  ! 
'Twas  whisper'd  balm — 'twas  sunshine  spoken  ! 

I'd  live  years  of  grief  and  pain, 
To  have  my  long  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 

By  such  benign,  blessed  sounds  again. 


I  SAW  FROM  THE  BEACH. 

I  SAW  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on  ; 

I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining — 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone  ! 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  life's  early  promise, 

So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known  : 

Each  wave  that  we  danc'd  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us, 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone ! 

Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night ; 
Give   me    back,    give    me   back    the   wild  freshness  of 
Morning, 
Her  clouds   and    her  tears  are  worth  Evening's  best 
light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning, 
When   passion    first    wak'd   a   new   life   through    his 
frame  ; 
And   his   soul,  like   the    wood   that    grows   precious  in 
burning, 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame  I 


OUR  FESTAL  HALLS.  207 


SILENCE  IS  IN  OUR  FESTAL  HALLS.* 

Silence  is  in  our  festal  halls, — 

Sweet  Son  of  Song  !  thy  course  is  o'er  ; 
In  vain  on  thee  sad  Erin  calls, 

Her  minstrel's  voice  responds  no  more  ; 
All  silent  as  th'  ^olian  shell 

Sleeps  at  the  close  of  some  bright  day, 
^^^len  the  sweet  breeze,  that  waked  its  swell 

At  sunny  morn,  hath  died  away. 

Yet,  at  our  feasts  thy  spirit  long, 

Awaked  by  music's  spell,  shall  rise  ; 
For,  name  so  link'd  with  deathless  song 

Partakes  its  charms  and  never  dies  : 
And  ev'n  within  the  holy  fane, 

When  music  wafts  the  soul  to  heaven, 
One  thought  to  him,  whose  earliest  strain 

Was  echoed  there,  shall  long  be  given. 

But  where  is  now  the  cheerful  day. 

The  social  night,  when,  by  thy  side, 
He,  who  now  weaves  this  parting  lay. 

His  skilless  voice  with  thine  allied  ; 
And  sung  those  songs  whose  every  tone. 

When  bard  and  minstrel  long  have  past. 
Shall  still,  in  sweetness  all  their  own, 

Embalm'd  by  fame,  undying  last. 

Yes,  Erin,  thine  alone  the  fame, — 
Or,  if  thy  bard  have  shared  the  crown, 

*  "It  is  hardly  necessary"  wrote  Moore  in  a  footnote  to  this 
song,  "to  infoiTQ  the  reader  that  these  lines  are  meant  as  a 
tribute  of  sincere  friendship  to  the  memory  of  an  old  and  valued 
colleagiie  in  this  work,  ^ir  John  Stevenson."  The  lyric  may  be 
presumed  to  have  a  wider  signiticance  than  the  poet  assign's  to 
it,  for  it  is  the  last  of  the  Irish  Melodies.— Editor. 


2o8  OH!  ARRANMORE. 

From  thee  the  borrow'd  glory  came, 
And  at  thy  feet  is  now  laid  down. 

Enough,  if  Freedom  still  inspire 
His  latest  song,  and  still  there  be, 

As  evening  closes  round  his  lyre, 
One  ray  upon  its  chords  from  thee. 


OH  !  ARRANMORE,  LOVED  ARRANMORE. 

Oh  !  Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore, 

How  oft  I  dream  of  thee, 
And  of  those  days  when,  by  thy  shore, 

I  wander'd  young  and  free. 
Full  many  a  part  Fve  tried,  since  then, 

Through  pleasure's  flowery  maze, 
But  ne'er  could  find  the  bliss  again 

I  felt  in  those  sweet  days. 

How  blithe  upon  thy  breezy  cliffs 

At  sunny  morn  I've  stood, 
With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 

That  danced  along  thy  flood  ; 
Or,  when  the  western  wave  grew  bright 

With  daylight's  parting  wing, 
Have  sought  that  Eden  in  its  light 

Which  dreaming  poets  sing  ;* — 

That  Eden  where  th'  immortal  brave 

Dwell  in  a  land  serene, — 
Whose  bow'rs  beyond  the  shining  wave, 

At  sunset,  oft  are  seen. 

*  The  inhabitants  of  Arranmore  are  still  persuaded  that,  in  a 
clear  day,  they  can  see  from  this  coast  Hy  Brysail,  or  tlie 
Enchanted  Island,  the  Paradise  of  the  Pagan  Irish,  and  con- 
cerning whicli  they  relate  a  nvnnber  of  romantic  stories. 


THERE  ARE  SOUNDS  OF  MIRTH.  209 

Ah  !  dream  too  full  of  sadd'nini^  truths  ! 

Those  mansions  o  er  the  main 
Are  like  the  hopes  I  built  in  youth, — 

As  sunny  and  as  vain  ! 


THERE  ARE  SOUNDS  OF  MIRTH. 

There  are  sounds  of  mirth  in  the  night-air  ringing, 

And  lamps  from  every  casement  shown  ; 
While  voices  blithe  within  are  singing, 

That  seem  to  say  "  Come  "  in  every  tone. 
Ah  !  once  how  light,  in  Life's  young  season, 

My  heart  had  leap'd  at  that  sweet  lay  ; 
Nor  paus'd  to  ask  of  greybeard  Reason 

Should  I  the  syren  call  obey. 

And,  see — the  lamps  still  livelier  glitter, 

The  syren  lips  more  fondly  sound  ; 
No,  seek,  ye  nymphs,  some  victim  fitter 

To  sink  in  your  rosy  bondage  bound. 
Shall  a  bard,  whom  not  the  world  in  arms 

Could  bend  to  tyranny's  rude  control. 
Thus  quail,  at  sight  of  woman's  charms, 

And  yield  to  a  smile  his  free-born  soul  ? 

Thus  sung  the  sage,  while,  slyly  stealing, 

The  nymphs  their  fetters  around  him  cast, 
And — their  laughing  eyes,  the  while,  concealing — 

Led  Freedom's  Bard  their  slave  at  last. 
For  the  Poet's  heart,  still  prone  to  loving, 

Was  like  that  rock  ot  the  Druid  race, 
Which  the  gentlest  touch  at  once  set  moving, 

But  all  earth's  power  couldn't  cast  from  its  base. 

363 


2IO  ALONE  IN  CROWDS. 


THE  NIGHT  DANCE. 

Strike  the  gay  harp  !  see  the  moon  is  on  high, 

And,  as  true  to  her  beam  as  the  tides  of  the  ocean, 
Young  hearts,  when  they  feel  the  soft  light  of  her  eye, 

Obey  the  mute  call,  and  heave  into  motion. 
Then,  sound  notes — the  gayest,  the  lightest, 

That  ever  took  wing,  when  heav'n  look'd  brightest  ! 
Again !   Again  ! 
Oh  !  could  such  heart-stirring  music  be  heard 

In  that  City  of  Statues  described  by  romancers. 
So  wakening  its  spell,  even  stone  would  be  stirr'd, 

And  statues  themselves  all  start  into  dancers  ! 


Why  then  delay,  with  such  sounds  in  our  ears, 

And  the  flower  of  Beauty's  own  garden  before  us, — 
While  stars  overhead  leave  the  song  of  their  spheres, 

And  list'ning  to  ours,  hang  wondering  o'er  us? 
Again,  that  strain  ! — to  hear  it  thus  sounding 

Might  set  even  Death's  cold  pulses  bounding — 
Again  !  Again  ! 
Oh,  what  delight  when  the  youthful  and  gay, 

Each  with  eye  like  a  sunbeam  and  foot  like  a  feather, 
Thus  dance,  like  the  Hours  to  the  music  of  May, 

And  mingle  sweet  song  and  sunshine  together  i 


ALONE  IN  CROWDS  TO  WANDER  ON. 

Alone  in  crowds  to  wander  on, 
And  feel  that  all  the  charm  is  gone 
Which  voices  dear  and  eyes  beloved 
Shed  round  us  once,  where'er  we  roved  — 


THE   WANDERING  BARD.  21  r 

This,  this  the  doom  must  be 

Of  all  who've  loved,  and  lived  to  see 

The  few  bright  things  they  thought  would  stay 

For  ever  near  them,  die  away. 

Tho'  fairer  forms  around  us  throng, 

Their  smiles  to  others  all  belong, 

And  want  that  charm  which  dwells  alone 

Round  those  the  fond  heart  calls  its  own. 

Where,  where  the  sunny  brow  ? 

The  long-known  voice — where  are  they  now  ? 

Thus  ask  I  still,  nor  ask  in  vain, 

The  silence  answers  all  too  plain. 

Oh,  what  is  Fancy's  magic  worth, 

If  all  her  art  cannot  call  forth 

One  bliss  like  those  we  felt  of  old 

From  lips  now  mute,  and  eyes  now  cold  ? 

No,  no, — her  spell  is  vain, — 

As  soon  could  she  bring  back  again 

Those  eyes  themselves  from  out  the  grave, 

As  wake  again  one  bliss  they  gave. 


THE  WANDERING  BARD. 

What  life  like  that  of  the  bard  can  be, 
The  wandering  bard,  who  roams  as  free 
As  the  mountain  lark  that  o'er  him  sings, 
And,  like  that  lark,  a  music  brings 
Within  him,  where'er  he  comes  or  goes, 
A  fount  that  for  ever  flows  ; 
The  world's  to  him  like  some  playground, 
Where  fairies  dance  their  moonlight  round 


212  THE   WANDERING  BARD. 

If  dimm'd  the  turf  where  late  they  trod, 
The  elves  but  seek  some  greener  sod  ; 
So,  when  less  bright  his  scene  of  glee. 
To  another  away  flies  he  ! 

Oh,  what  would  have  been  young  Beauty's  doom, 

Without  a  bard  to  fix  her  bloom  ? 

They  tell  us,  in  the  moon's  bright  round, 

Things  lost  in  this  dark  world  are  found. 

So  charms,  on  earth  long  pass'd  and  gone, 

In  the  poet's  lay  live  on — 

Would  ye  have  smiles  that  ne'er  grow  dim  ? 

You've  only  to  give  them  all  to  him, 

Who,  with  but  a  touch  of  Fancy's  wand, 

Can  lend  them  life,  this  life  beyond, 

And  fix  them  high,  in  I'oesy's  sky — 

Young  stars  that  never  die  ! 

Then,  welcome  the  bard  ^^  here'er  he  comes— 

For,  though  he  hath  countless  airy  homes. 

To  which  his  wing  excursive  roves, 

Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  he  loves 

To  light  upon  earth  and  find  such  cheer 

As  brightens  our  banquet  here. 

No  matter  how  far,  how  fleet  he  flies, 

You've  only  to  light  up  kind  young  eyes, 

Such  signal-fires  as  here  are  given — 

And  down  he'll  drop  from  Fancy's  heaven, 

The  minute  such  call  to  love  or  mirth 

Proclaims  he's  wanting  on  earth  ! 


SIiXG,  S  WEE  T  HARP.  213 


SING,  SWEET  HARP. 

Sing,  sweet  Harp,  oh  sing  to  me 

Some  song  of  ancient  days, 
Whose  sounds,  in  this  sad  memory, 

Long  buried  dreams  shall  raise  ; 
Some  lay  that  tells  of  vanish'd  fame, 

WTiose  light  once  round  us  shone  ; 
Of  noble  pride,  now  turn'd  to  shame, 

And  hopes  for  ever  gone. 
Sing,  sad  Harp,  thus  sing  to  me ; 

Alike  our  doom  is  cast, 
Both  lost  to  all  but  memory. 

We  live  but  in  the  past. 

How  mournfully  the  midnight  air 

Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh, 
As  if  it  sought  some  echo  there 

Of  voices  long  gone  by  ; 
Of  chieftains,  now  forgot,  who  seem'd 

The  foremost  then  in  fame  ; 
Of  bards  who,  once  immortal  deem'd. 

Now  sleep  without  a  name. 
In  vain,  sad  Harp,  the  midnight  air 

Among  thy  chords  doth  sigh  ; 
In  vain  it  seeks  an  echo  there 

Of  voices  long  gone  by. 

Could'st  thou  but  call  those  spirits  round, 

WTio  once,  in  bower  and  hall. 
Sate  listening  to  thy  magic  sound. 

Now  mute  and  mouldering  all ; 
But,  no  ;  they  would  but  wake  to  weep 

Their  children's  slavery ; 
Then  leave  them  in  their  dreamless  sleep, 

The  dead,  at  least,  are  free  ! 


214  THE  BANQUET. 

Hush,  hush,  sad  Harp,  that  dreary  tone, 

That  knell  of  Freedom's  day  ; 
Or,  listening  to  its  death-like  moan, 

Let  me,  too,  die  away. 

THOUGH  HUMBLE  THE  BANQUET. 

Though  humble  the  banquet  to  which  I  invite  thee, 
Thou'lt  find  there  the  best  a  poor  bard  can  command  : 

Eyes,   beaming  with    welcome,   shall  throng    round   to 
light  thee, 
And  Love  serve  the  feast  with  his  own  willing  hand. 

And  though  Fortune  may  seem  to  have  turn'd  from  the 
dwelling 

Of  him  thou  regardesl  her  favouring  ray, 
Thou  wilt  find  there  a  gift,  all  her  treasures  excelling, 

Which,  proudly  he  feels,  hath  ennobled  his  way. 

'Tis  that  freedom  of  mind,  which  no  vulgar  dominion 
Can  turn  from  the  path  a  pure  conscience  approves  ; 

Which,  with  hope  in  the  heart,  and  no   chain    on   the 
pinion, 
Holds  upwards  its  course  to  the  light  which  it  loves. 

'Tis  this  makes  the  pride  of  his  humble  retreat, 

And,  with  this,  though  of  all  other  treasures  bereaved. 

The  breeze  of  his  garden  to  him  is  more  sweet 

Than  the  costliest  incense  that  Pomp  e'er  received. 

Then,  come, — if  a  board  so  untempting  hath  power 

To  win  thee  from  grandeur,  its  best  shall  be  thine  ; 
And   there's  one,   long  the    light    of  the   bard's   happy 
bower, 
Who,  smiling,  will   blend  her    bright   welcome    with 
mine. 


DESMOND'S  SONG.  215 

DESMOND'S  SONG.* 

By  the  Feal's  wave  benighted, 

Not  a  star  in  the  skies, 
To  thy  door  by  Love  lighted, 

I  first  saw  those  eyes. 
Some  voice  whispered  o'er  me, 

As  the  threshold  I  crossed, 
There  was  ruin  before  me  : 

If  I  loved,  I  was  lost. 

Love  came,  and  brought  sorrow 

Too  soon  in  his  train  ; 
Yet  so  sweet,  that  to-morrow 

'Twould  be  welcome  again. 
Were  misery's  full  measure 

Poured  out  to  me  now, 
I  would  drain  it  with  pleasure. 

So  the  Hebe  were  thou. 

You  who  call  it  dishonour 

To  bow  to  this  flame, 
If  you've  eyes,  look  but  on  her, 

And  blush  while  you  blame. 
Hath  the  pearl  less  whiteness 

Because  of  its  birth  ? 
Hath  the  violet  less  brightness 

For  growing  near  earth  ! 

*  Thomas,  the  heir  of  the  Desmond  family,  had  accidentally 
been  so  engaged  in  the  chase,  that  he  was  benighted  near 
Tralee,  and  obliged  to  take  shelter  at  the  Abbey  of  Feal.  in  the 
house  of  one  of  his  dependants,  called  Mac  Cormac.  Catherine, 
a  beautiful  daughter  of  his  host,  instantly  inspired  the  Earl  with 
a  violent  passion,  which  he  could  not  subdue.  He  married  her, 
and  by  this  inferior  alliance  alienated  his  followers,  whose 
brutal  pride  regarded  this  indulgence  of  his  love  as  an  un- 
pardonable degradation  of  his  family.— ieZa/irf,  vol.  ii. 


2i6  MUSIC  WAS  GIVEN, 

No — Man,  for  his  glory, 

To  history  flies  ; 
While  Woman's  bright  story 

Is  told  in  her  eyes. 
Wliile  the  monarch  but  traces 

Through  mortals  his  line, 
Beauty,  born  of  the  Graces, 

Ranks  next  to  divine  ! 


SING-SING— MUSIC  WAS  GIVEN. 

Sing — sing — Music  was  given 
To  brighten  the  gay,  and  kindle  the  loving  ; 

Souls  here,  like  planets  in  heaven, 
By  harmony's  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 
Beauty  may  boast  of  her  eyes  and  her  cheeks, 

But  love  from  the  lips  his  true  archery  wings  ; 
And  she  who  but  feathers  the  dart  when  she  speaks, 
At  once  sends  it  home  to  the  heart  when  she  sings. 
Then  sing — sing — Music  was  given 
To  brighten  the  gay,  and  kindle  the  loving  ; 

Souls  here,  like  planets  in  heaven. 
By  harmony's  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 

When  Love,  rocked  by  his  mother, 
Lay  sleeping  as  calm  as  slumber  could  make  him, 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Venus,  "  no  other 
Sweet  voice  but  his  own  is  worthy  to  wake  him." 
Dreaming  of  music  he  slumbered  the  while, 

Till  faint  from  his  lips  a  soft  melody  broke. 
And  Venus,  enchanted,  looked  on  with  a  smile, 
While  Love  to  his  own  sweet  sinsintr  awoke  ! 


B  V  THA  T  DIM  LAKE.  2 1 7 

Then  sing — sing — Music  was  given 
To  brighten  the  gay,  and  kindle  the  loving  ; 

Souls  here,  like  planets  in  heaven 
By  harmony's  laws  alone  are  kept  moving. 


I  WISH  I  WAS  BY  THAT  DIM  LAKE. 

I  WISH  I  was  by  that  dim  lake, 

Where  sinful  souls  their  farewells  take 

Of  this  vain  world,  and  half-way  lie 

In  Death's  cold  shadow,  ere  they  die. 

There,  there,  far  from  thee, 

Deceitful  world,  my  home  should  be — 

Where,  come  what  might  of  gloom  and  pain, 

False  hope  should  ne'er  deceive  again  ! 

The  lifeless  sky,  the  mournful  sound 
Of  unseen  waters,  falling  round — 
The  dry  leaves  quivering  o'er  my  head. 
Like  man,  unquiet  even  when  dead — 
These — ay — these  should  wean 
My  soul  from  Life's  deluding  scene. 
And  turn  each  thought,  each  wish  I  have, 
Like  willows,  downward  towards  the  grave. 

As  they  who  to  their  couch  at  night 
Would  welcome  sleep,  first  quench  the  light, 
So  must  the  hopes  that  keep  this  breast 
Awake,  be  quenched,  ere  it  can  rest. 
Cold,  cold,  my  heart  must  grow, 
Unchanged  by  either  joy  or  woe. 
Like  freezing  founts,  where  all  that's  thrown 
Within  their  current  turns  to  stone. 


2i8  SWEET  INNISFALLEN. 


SWEET  INNISFALLEN. 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 

May  calm  and  sunshine  long  be  thine  ! 

How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell, 
While  but  \.ofeel  how  fair  is  mine  ! 

Sweet  Innisfallen,  fare  thee  well, 

And  long  may  light  around  thee  smile, 

As  soft  as  on  that  evening  fell 
When  first  I  saw  thy  fairy  isle  ! 

Thou  wert  too  lovely  then  for  one 
Who  had  to  turn  to  paths  of  care — 

Who  had  through  vulgar  crowds  to  run, 
And  leave  thee  bright  and  silent  there  : 

No  more  along  thy  shores  to  come, 
But  on  the  worki's  dim  ocean  tost. 

Dream  of  thee  sometimes  as  a  home 
Of  sunshine  he  had  seen  and  lost. 

Far  better  in  thy  weeping  hours 
To  part  from  thee  as  I  do  now. 

When  mist  is  o'er  thy  blooming  bowers, 
Like  Sorrow's  veil  on  Beauty's  brow. 

For  though  unrivalled  still  thy  grace, 
Thou  dost  not  look,  as  then,  too  blest, 

But  in  thy  shadows  seem'st  a  place 

Where  weary  man  might  hope  to  rest — 

Might  hope  to  rest,  and  find  in  thee 
A  gloom  like  Eden's,  on  the  day 

He  left  its  shade,  when  every  tree, 

Like  thine,  hung  weeping  o'er  his  way  I 


'TWAS  ONE  OF  THOSE  DREAMS.  219 

Weeping  or  smiling,  lovely  isle  ! 

And  still  the  lovelier  for  thy  tears — 
For  though  but  rare  thy  sunny  smile, 

'Tis  heaven's  own  glance  when  it  appears. 

Like  feeling  hearts,  whose  joys  are  few, 
But,  when  imfeed  they  come,  divine — 

The  steadiest  light  the  sun  e'er  threw 
Is  lifeless  to  one  gleam  of  thine  ! 

'TWAS  ONE  OF  THOSE  DREAMS. 

'TwAS  one  of  those  dreams  that  by  music  are  brought, 
Like  a  light  summer  haze,  o'er  the  poet's  warm  thought, 
When,  lost  in  the  future,  his  soul  wanders  on. 
And  all  of  this  life  but  its  sweetness  is  gone. 

The  wild  notes  he  heard  o'er  the  water  were  those 
To  which  he  had  sung  Erin's  bondage  and  woes. 
And  the  breath  of  the  bugle  now  wafted  them  o'er 
From  Denis'  green  isle  to  Glena's  wooded  shore. 

He  listened — while  high  o'er  the  eagle's  rude  nest 
The  lingering  sounds  on  their  way  loved  to  rest  ; 
And  the  echoes  sung  back  from  their  full  mountain  choir, 
As  if  loth  to  let  song  so  enchanting  expire. 

It  seemed  as  if  every  sweet  note  that  died  here 
Was  again  brought  to  life  in  some  airier  sphere. 
Some  heaven  in  those  hills  where  the  soul  of  the  strain, 
That  had  ceased  upon  earth,  was  awaking  again  ! 

Oh  forgive,  if,  while  listening  to  music  whose  breath 
Seemed  to  circle  his  name  with  a  charm  against  death, 
He  should  feel  a  proud  spirit  wdthin  him  proclaim — 
' '  Even  so  shalt  thou  live  in  the  echoes  of  Fame  : 


220  SAIL  ON,  SAIL  ON. 

**  Even  so,  though  thy  memory  should  now  die  away, 
'Twill  be  caught  up  again  in  some  happier  day, 
And  the  hearts  and  the  voices  of  Erin  prolong, 
Through  the  answering  future,  thy  name  and  thy  song  ! 


OH  !  BANQUET  NOT. 

Oh  !  banquet  not  in  those  shining  bowers 

Where  youth  resorts,  but  come  to  me  ; 
For  mine's  a  garden  of  faded  flowers, 

More  fit  for  sorrow,  for  age,  and  thee. 
And  there  we  shall  have  our  feast  of  tears, 

And  many  a  cup  in  silence  pour — 
Our  guests,  the  shades  of  former  years — 

Our  toasts,  to  lips  that  bloom  no  more. 

There,  while  the  myrtle's  withering  boughs 

Their  lifeless  leaves  around  us  shed. 
We'll  brim  the  bowl  to  broken  vows, 

To  friends  long  lost,  the  changed,  the  dead. 
Or,  as  some  blighted  laurel  waves 

Its  branches  o'er  the  dreary  spot. 
We'll  drink  to  those  neglected  graves 

Where  valour  sleeps,  unnamed,  forgot  ! 


SAIL  ON,  SAIL  ON. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  thou  fearless  bark — 
Wherever  blows  the  welcome  wind, 

It  cannot  lead  to  scenes  more  dark, 
More  sad,  than  th  )se  we  leave  behind. 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER.  221 

Each  wave  that  passes  seems  to  say, 

"  Though  death  beneath  our  smile  may  be, 

Less  cold  we  are,  less  false  than  they 

"Whose  smiling  wrecked  thy  hopes  and  thee." 

Sail  on,  sail  on — through  endless  space — 

Through  calm — through  tempest — stop  no  more ; 
The  stormiest  sea's  a  resting-place 

To  him  who  leaves  such  hearts  on  shore. 
Or — if  some  desert  land  we  meet, 

Where  never  yet  false-hearted  men 
Profaned  a  world  that  else  were  sweet — 

Then  rest  thee,  bark,  but  not  till  then. 

THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Down  in  the  valley  come  meet  me  to-night, 

And  I'll  tell  you  your  fortune  truly 
As  ever  'twas  told,  by  the  new  moon's  light, 

To  young  maidens  shining  as  newly. 

But,  for  the  world,  let  no  one  be  nigh, 
Lest  haply  the  stars  should  deceive  me  ; 

These  secrets  between  you  and  me  and  the  sky 
Should  never  go  farther,  believe  me. 

If  at  that  hour  the  heavens  be  not  dim. 

My  science  shall  call  up  before  you 
A  male  apparition — the  image  of  him 

Whose  destiny  'tis  to  adore  you. 

Then  to  the  phantom  be  thou  but  kind, 
And  round  you  so  fondly  he'll  hover  ; 

You'll  hardly,  my  dear,  any  difference  find 
'Twixt  him  and  a  true  living  lover. 


222      WHEN  COLD  IN  THE  EARTH. 

Down  at  your  feet,  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
He'll  kneel  with  a  warmth  of  emotion — 

An  ardour,  of  which  such  an  innocent  sprite 
You'd  scarcely  believe  had  a  notion. 

What  other  thoughts  and  events  may  arise, 
As  in  Destiny's  book  I've  not  seen  them, 

Must  only  be  left  to  the  stars  and  your  eyes 
To  settle  ere  morning  between  them. 


WHEN  COLD  IN  THE  EARTH. 

When  cold  in  the  earth  lies  the  friend  thou  hast  loved, 

Be  his  faults  and  his  follies  forgot  by  thee  then  ; 
Or  if  from  their  slumber  the  veil  be  removed, 

Weep  o'er  them  in  silence,  and  close  it  again. 
And,  oh  !  if 'tis  pain  to  remember  how  far 

From  the  pathways  of  light  he  was  tempted  to  roam. 
Be  it  bliss  to  remember  that  thou  wcrt  the  star 

That  arose  on  his  darkness  and  guided  him  home. 

From  thee  and  thy  innocent  beauty  first  came 

The  revealings  that  taught  him  true  Love  to  adore. 
To  feel  the  bright  presence,  and  turn  him  with  shame 

From  the  idols  he  blindly  had  knelt  to  before. 
O'er  the  waves  of  a  life,  long  benighted  and  wild, 

Thou  earnest,  like  a  soft  golden  calm  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  if  happiness  purely  and  glowingly  smiled 

On  his  evening  horizon,  the  light  was  from  thee. 

And  though  sometimes  the  shade  of  past  folly  would 
rise. 
And  though  Falsehood  again  would  allure  him  to 
stray, 


IN  THE  MORNING  OF  IIFE.        2: 

He  but  turned  to  the  glory  that  dwelt  in  those  eyes, 
And  the  folly,  the  falsehood,  soon  vanished  away. 

As  the  Priests  of  the  Sun,  when  their  altar  grew  dim, 
At  the  day-beam  alone  could  its  lustre  repair, 

So,  if  virtue  a  moment  grew  languid  in  him. 

He  but  flew  to  that  smile,  and  rekindled  it  there. 


WHENE'ER  I  SEE  THOSE  SMILING  EYES. 

Whene'er  I  see  those  smiling  eyes. 

All  filled  with  hope,  and  joy,  and  light, 
As  if  no  cloud  could  ever  rise 

To  dim  a  heaven  so  purely  bright — 
I  sigh  to  think  how  soon  that  brow 

In  grief  may  lose  its  every  ray, 
And  that  light  heart  so  joyous  now. 

Almost  forget  it  once  was  gay. 

For  Time  will  come  with  all  his  blights, 

The  ruined  hope — the  friend  unkind — 
The  love  that  leaves,  where'er  it  lights, 

A  chilled  or  burning  heart  behind  ! 
While  youth,  that  now  like  snow  appears. 

Ere  sullied  by  the  darkening  rain, 
When  once  'tis  touched  by  sorrow's  tears, 

Will  never  shine  so  bright  again. 

IN  THE  MORNING  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  morning  of  life,  when  its  cares  are  unknown. 
And  its  pleasures  in  all  their  new  lustre  begin, 

When  we  live  in  a  bright-beaming  world  of  our  owa 
And  the  light  that  surrounds  us  is  all  from  within ; 


224  y^S  SLOW  OUR  SHIP. 

Oh,  it  is  not,  believe  me,  in  that  happy  time 

We  can  love  as  in  hours  of  less  transport  we  may  : — 

Of  our  smiles,  of  our  hopes,  'tis  the  gay  sunny  prime, 
But  affection  is  warmest  when  these  fade  away. 

When  we  see  the  first  glory  of  youth  pass  us  by, 

Like  a  leaf  on  the  stream  that  will  never  return  ; 
When  our  cup,  which  had  sparkled  with  pleasure  so 
high, 

First  tastes  of  the  other,  the  dark  flowing  urn ; 
Then,  then  is  the  moment  affection  can  sway 

With  a  depth  and  a  tenderness  joy  never  knew  ; 
Love  nursed  among  pleasures  is  faithless  as  they, 

But  the  Love  born  of  sorrow,  like  sorrow,  is  true  ! 

In  climes  full  of  sunshine,  though  splendid  their  dyes. 

Yet  faint  is  the  odour  the  flowers  shed  about ; 
'Tis  the  clouds  and  the  mists  of  our  own  weeping  skies 

That  call  the  full  spirit  of  fragrancy  out. 
So  the  wild  glow  of  passion  may  kindle  from  mirth, 

But  'tis  only  in  grief  true  aftection  appears  ; — 
And  even  though  to  smiles  it  may  first  owe  its  birth, 

All  the  soul  of  its  sweetness  is  drawn  out  by  tears. 

AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  looked  back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love. 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us  ; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us  ! 


O  THE  SHAMROCK/  225 

WTien  round  the  bowl  of  vanished  years 

^Ve  talk,  with  joyous  seeming, — 
With  smiles,  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming  ; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us  ! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting  ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss 

If  Heaven  had  but  assigned  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us  ! 

As  travellers  oft  look  back,  at  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going. 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consigned  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 


^ 


O  THE  SHAMROCK  I 

Through  Erin's  Isle, 
To  sport  awhile, 
As  Love  and  Valour  wander'd, 
With  Wit,  the  sprite, 
Whose  quiver  bright 

364 


226  0  THE  SHAMROCK/ 

A  thousand  arrows  squander'd  ; 

Where'er  they  pass, 

A  triple  grass 
Shoots  up,  with  dewdrops  streaming, 

As  softly  green 

As  emerald  seen 
Through  purest  crystal  gleaming. 
O  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock  ! 
Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock  ! 


Says  Valour,  **  See, 

They  spring  for  me. 
Those  leafy  gems  of  morning  ! " 

Says  Love,  "  No,  no, 

For  me  they  grow. 
My  fragrant  path  adorning. " 

But  Wit  perceives 

The  triple  leaves. 
And  cries,  "  Oh  !  do  not  sever 

A  type  that  blends 

Three  godlike  friends, 

Love,  Valour,  Wit,  for  ever  !  " 
O  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock  ! 
Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock  ! 

So  firmly  fond 

May  last  the  bond 
They  wove  that  morn  together. 

And  ne'er  may  fall 

One  drop  of  gall 
On  Wit's  celestial  feather  ! 


BY  THAT  LAKE.  22? 

May  Love,  as  twine 

His  flowers  divine, 
Of  thorny  falsehood  weed  'em  ! 

May  Valour  ne'er 

His  standard  rear 
Against  the  cause  of  Freedom  ! 
O  the  Shamrock,  the  green,  immortal  Shamrock  ! 
Chosen  leaf 

Of  Bard  and  Chief, 
Old  Erin's  native  Shamrock  ! 


BY  THAT  LAKE  WHOSE  GLOOMY  SHORE.* 

By  that  Lake  whose  gloomy  shore 
Skylark  never  warbles  o'er, 
Where  the  cliff  hangs  high  and  sleep. 
Young  Saint  Kevin  stole  to  sleep. 
"  Here,  at  least,"  he  calmly  said, 
**  Woman  ne'er  shall  find  my  bed." 
Ah  !  the  good  Saint  little  knew 
What  that  wily  sex  can  do. 

'Twas  from  Kathleen's  eyes  he  flew, — 
Eyes  of  most  unholy  blue  ! 
She  had  loved  him  well  and  long, 
Wish'd  him  hers,  nor  thought  it  wrong. 
Wheresoe'er  the  Saint  would  fly, 
Still  he  heard  her  light  foot  nigh  ; 
East  or  west,  where'er  he  turn'd, 
Still  her  eyes  before  him  burn'd. 

*  This  ballad  is  founded  upon  one  of  the  mnny  stories  related 
of  St.  Kevin,  whose  bed  in  the  rock  is  to  be  seen  at  Gle ndaloiigh, 
a  most  gloomy  and  romantic  spot  in  the  county  of  Wicklow. 


228  TO  LEIGH  HUNT. 

On  the  bold  cliff's  bosom  cast, 
Tranquil  now  he  sleeps  at  last ; 
Dreams  of  heaven,  nor  thinks  that  e'er 
Woman's  smile  can  haunt  him  there. 
But  nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  free 
From  her  power,  if  fond  she  be  : 
Even  now,  while  calm  he  sleeps, 
Kathleen  o'er  him  leans  and  weeps. 

Fearless  she  had  track'd  his  feet 
To  this  rocky,  wild  retreat  ; 
And,  when  morning  met  his  view, 
Her  mild  glances  met  it  too. 
Ah  !  your  Saints  have  cruel  hearts  ! 
Sternly  from  his  bed  he  starts. 
And,  with  rude,  repulsive  shock, 
Hurls  her  from  the  beetling  rock. 

Glendalough  !  thy  gloomy  wave 
Soon  was  gentle  Kathleen's  grave  ! 
Soon  the  Saint  (yet  ah  !  too  late) 
Felt  her  love,  and  mourn'd  her  fate. 
When  he  said,  "  Heaven  rest  her  soul  !  " 
Round  the  Lake  light  music  stole  ; 
And  her  ghost  was  seen  to  glide, 
Smiling,  o'er  the  fatal  tide  ! 

The  foregoing  are  from  the  Irish  Melodies. 

TO  LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  BROTHER.* 
Go  to  your  prisons — though  the  air  of  spring  ^ 
No  mountain  coldness  to  your  cheeks  shall  bring  ; 

*  This  piece  is  from  "The  Two-Penny  Post- Bag,"  and  is 
obviously  addressed  to  Leigh  Hunt  and  his  brother  John,  who 
were  fined  and  imprisoned  in  1812  for  a  satirical  article  in  the 
Examiner  on  the  Prince  Regent. — EDITOR. 


MAGDALEN.  229 

Though  summer  flowers  shall  pass  unseen  away, 

And  all  your  portion  of  the  glorious  day 

May  be  some  solitary  beam  that  falls, 

At  morn  or  eve,  upon  your  dreary  walls — 

Some  beam  that  enters,  trembling,  as  if  awed, 

To  tell  how  gay  the  young  world  laughs  abroad  ! 

Yet  go — for  thoughts  as  blessed  as  the  air 

Of  spring  or  summer  flowers,  await  you  there  : 

Thoughts  such  as  he  who  feasts  his  courtly  crew 

In  rich  conservatories  7iever  knew  ! 

Pure  self-esteem — the  smiles  that  light  within — 

The  zeal  whose  circling  charities  begin 

With  the  few  loved-ones  Heaven  has  placed  it  near, 

Nor  cease  till  all  mankind  are  in  its  sphere  ! — 

The  pride  that  suffers  without  vaunt  or  plea, 

And  the  fresh  spirit  that  can  warble  free, 

Through  prison-bars,  its  hymn  to  liberty  ! 


MAGDALEN. 

"Neither  do  I  condemn  thee  ;   go,  and  sin  no  more."— Sf. 
John  viii.  11. 

O  WOMAN  !  if  by  simple  wile 

Thy  soul  has  stray'd  from  honour's  track, 
'Tis  mercy  only  can  beguile, 

By  gentle  ways,  the  wanderer  back. 

The  stain  that  on  thy  virtue  lies, 

Wash'd  by  thy  tears  may  yet  decay  ; 

As  clouds  that  sully  morning  skies 
May  all  be  wept  in  showers  away. 

Go,  go — be  innocent  and  live — 

The  tongues  of  men  may  wound  thee  sore  ; 

But  Heaven  in  pity  can  forgive, 
And  bids  thee  "  go,  and  sin  no  more  !  " 


230  ASPASIA. 

ARISTIPPUS  TO  HIS  LAMP. 

I  TELI,  thee,  as  I  trim  thy  fire, 

"  Swift,  swift  the  tide  of  being  runs, 

And  Time  who  bids  thy  flame  expire, 
Will  also  quench  yon  heaven  of  suns  ! '' 

Oh  then,  if  earth's  united  power 
Can  never  chain  one  feathery  hour  ; 
If  every  print  we  leave  to-day 
To-morrow's  wave  shall  steal  away  ; 
Who  pauses  to  inquire  of  Heaven 
Why  were  the  fleeting  treasures  given, 
The  sunny  days,  the  shady  nights, 
And  all  their  brief  but  dear  delights, 
Which  Heaven  has  made  for  man  to  use, 
And  man  should  think  it  guilt  to  lose  ? 
Who  that  has  cull'd  a  weeping  rose 
Will  ask  it  why  it  breathes  and  glows, 
Unmindful  of  the  blushing  ray 
In  which  it  shines  its  soul  away: 
Unmindful  of  the  scented  sigh, 
On  which  it  dies,  and  loves  to  die? 

Pleasure  !  thou  only  good  on  earth  I 
One  little  hour  resign'd  to  thee — 

Oh  !  by  my  Lais  lip,  'tis  worth 
The  sage's  immortality  ! 

ASPASIA, 

'TwAS  in  the  fair  Aspasia's  bower 
That  Love  and  Learning  many  an  hour 
In  dalliance  met  ;  and  Learning  smiled 
With  rapture  on  the  playful  child, 


TO  MRS.  BL—H-D.  231 

Who  frequent  stole  to  find  his  nest 
Within  a  fold  of  Learning's  vest. 

There,  as  the  listening  statesman  hung 
In  transport  on  Aspasia's  tongue, 
The  destinies  of  Athens  took 
Their  colour  from  Aspasia's  look. 
Oh  happy  time  !  when  laws  of  state, 
When  all  that  ruled  the  country's  fate, 
Its  glory,  quiet,  or  alarms, 
Was  plann'd  between  two  snowy  arms  ! 
Sweet  times  !  you  could  not  always  last — 
And  yet,  oh  !  yet,  you  are  not  past ; 
Though  we  have  lost  the  sacred  mould 
In  which  their  men  were  cast  of  old, 
Woman,  dear  woman,  still  the  same. 
While  lips  are  balm  and  looks  are  flame, 
WTiile  man  possesses  heart  or  eyes. 
Woman's  bright  empire  never  dies  ! 

Fanny,  my  love,  they  ne'er  shall  say 
That  beauty's  charm  hath  pass'd  away ; 
No — give  the  universe  a  soul 
Attuned  to  woman's  soft  control, 
And  Fanny  hath  the  charm,  the  skill, 
To  wield  a  universe  at  will ! 

TO  MRS.  BL— H— D. 

WRITTEN    IN    HER   ALBUM. 

They  say  that  Love  had  once  a  book 

(The  urchin  likes  to  copy  you) 
Where  all  who  came  the  pencil  took 

And  wrote,  like  us,  a  line  or  two. 


232  TO  MRS.  BL—H-D. 

'Twas  Innocence,  the  maid  divine, 
Who  kept  this  volume  bright  and  fair, 

And  saw  that  no  unhallow'd  line 

Or  thought  profane  should  enter  there. 

And  sweetly  did  the  pages  fill 
With  fond  device  and  loving  lore. 

And  every  leaf  she  turn'd  was  still 

More  bright  than  that  she  turn'd  before  ! 

Beneath  the  touch  of  Hope,  how  soft, 
How  light  the  magic  pencil  ran  ! 

Till  Fear  would  come,  alas  !  as  oft, 
And  trembling  close  what  Hope  began. 


A  tear  or  two  had  dropp'd  from  Grief, 
And  Jealousy  would  now  and  then 

Ruffle  in  haste  some  snowy  leaf, 

Which  Love  had  still  to  smooth  again 


But  oh  !  there  was  a  blooming  boy. 
Who  often  turn'd  the  pages  o'er, 

And  wrote  therein  such  words  of  joy, 
As  all  who  read  still  sigh'd  for  more  ! 

And  Pleasure  was  this  spirit's  name. 
And  though  so  soft  his  voice  and  look. 

Yet  Innocence,  whene'er  he  came, 
Would  tremble  for  her  spotless  book  ! 

And  so  it  chanced,  one  luckless  night 

He  let  his  nectar  goblet  fall 
O'er  the  dear  book,  so  pure,  so  white, 

And  sullied  lines  and  marge  and  all  ! 


WHEN  TIME,   WHO  STEALS.       233 

And  Fancy's  emblems  lost  their  glow, 
And  Hope's  sweet  lines  were  all  defaced, 

And  Love  himself  could  scarcely  know 
What  Love  himself  had  lately  traced. 

At  length  the  urchin  Pleasure  fled 

(For  how,  alas  !  could  Pleasure  stay?), 

And  Love,  while  many  a  tear  he  shed, 
In  blushes  flung  the  book  away  ! 


The  index  now  alone  remains. 

Of  all  the  pages  spoiled  by  Pleasure, 

And  though  it  bears  some  honey  stains, 
Yet  Memory  counts  the  leaf  a  treasure  ! 

And  oft,  they  say,  she  scans  it  o'er. 
And  oft,  by  this  memorial  aided. 

Brings  back  the  pages  now  no  more, 
And  thinks  of  lines  that  long  are  faded  ! 

I  know  not  if  this  tale  be  true, 

But  thus  the  simple  facts  are  stated  ; 

And  I  refer  their  truth  to  you, 

Since  Love  and  you  are  near  related  ! 


WHEN  TIME,  WHO  STEALS. 

When  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away, 

Shall  steal  our  pleasures  too. 
And  memory  of  the  past  will  stay, 

And  half  our  joys  renew. 


234       WHEN  TIME,    WHO  STEALS. 

Then,  Chloe,  when  thy  beauty's  flower 

Shall  feel  the  wintry  air, 
Remembrance  will  recall  the  hour 

When  thou  alone  wert  fair  ! 

Then  talk  no  more  of  future  gloom  ; 

Our  joys  shall  always  last; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past  ! 

Come,  Chloe,  fill  the  genial  bowl, 

I  drink  to  love  and  thee  : 
Thou  never  canst  decay  in  soul, 

Thou'lt  still  be  young  for  me. 

And  as  thy  lips  the  tear-drop  chase, 
Which  on  my  cheek  they  find. 

So  hope  shall  steal  away  the  trace 
Which  sorrow  leaves  behind  ! 

Then  fill  the  bowl— away  with  gloom  ! 

Our  joys  shall  always  last ; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past  ! 

But  mark,  at  thought  of  future  years 
When  love  shall  lose  its  soul, 

My  Chloe  drops  her  timid  tears, 
They  mingle  with  my  bowl  ! 

How  like  the  bowl  of  wine,  my  fair, 

Our  loving  life  shall  fleet  ; 
Though  tears  may  sometimes  mingle  there. 

The  draught  will  still  be  sweet  ! 

Then  fill  the  bowl  ! — away  with  gloom  ! 

Our  joys  shall  always  last  ; 
For  hope  will  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 


WOMAN.  235 

TELL  ME  WHERE  THE  MAID  IS  FOUxXD. 

Come,  tell  me  where  the  maid  is  found, 
Whose  heart  can  love  without  deceit. 

And  I  will  range  the  world  around, 
To  sigh  one  moment  at  her  feet. 

Oh  !  tell  me  where's  her  sainted  home, 
What  air  receives  her  blessed  sigh, 

A  pilgrimage  of  years  I'll  roam 
To  catch  one  sparkle  of  her  eye  ! 

And  if  her  cheek  be  rosy  bright, 
While  truth  within  her  bosom  lies, 

I'll  gaze  upon  her  morn  and  night, 

Till  my  heart  leave  me  through  my  eyes. 

Show  me  on  earth  a  thing  so  rare, 

I'll  own  all  miracles  are  true  ; 
To  make  one  maid  sincere  and  fair, 

Oh  !  'tis  the  utmost  Heaven  can  do  ! 


W^OMAN. 

Away,  away,  you're  all  the  same, 
A  fluttering,  smiling,  jilting  throng  ! 

Oh  !  by  my  soul,  I  burn  with  shame. 
To  think  I've  been  your  slave  so  long  ! 

Still  panting  o'er  a  crowd  to  reign. 
More  joy  it  gives  to  woman's  breast 

To  make  ten  frigid  coxcombs  vain, 
Than  one  true  manly  lover  blest  ! 


236  AN  IDEAL  LAND. 

Away,  away — your  smile's  a  curse — 
Oh  !  blot  me  from  the  race  of  men, 

Kind,  pitying  Heaven  !  by  death  or  worse 
Before  I  love  such  things  again  ! 


AN  IDEAL  LAND 

FROM    AN    EPISTLE   TO    MISS    MOORE. 

The  warrior  here,  in  arms  no  more, 
Thinks  of  the  toil,  the  conflict  o'er. 
And  glorying  in  the  rights  they  won 
For  hearth  and  altar,  sire  and  son, 
Smiles  on  the  dusky  webs  that  hide 
His  sleeping  sword's  remember'd  pride  ! 
While  peace,  with  sunny  cheeks  of  toil, 
Walks  o'er  the  free,  unlorded  soil, 
Effacing  with  her  splendid  'share 
The  drops  that  war  had  sprinkled  there  ! 
Thrice  happy  land  !  where  he  who  flies 
From  the  dark  ills  of  other  skies. 
From  scorn,  or  want's  unnerving  woes. 
May  shelter  him  in  proud  repose  ! 
Hope  sings  along  the  yellow  sand 
His  welcome  to  a  patriot  land  ; 
The  mighty  wood,  with  pomp,  receives 
The  stranger,  in  its  world  of  leaves, 
^^^lich  soon  their  barren  glory  yield 
To  the  warm  shed  and  cultured  field  ; 
And  he,  who  came,  of  all  bereft, 
To  whom  malignant  fate  had  left 
Nor  home  nor  friends  nor  country  dear, 
Finds  home  and  friends  and  country  here 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON.  237 

I  KNEW  BY  THE  SMOKE. 

I  KNEW  Ly  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curl'd 

Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near, 
And    I   said,     "If  there's  peace  to   be  found  in   the 

world, 
A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for  it  here  !  " 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languish'd  around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee; 
Ever}'  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 

But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech-tree. 

And  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"'  I  exclaim'd, 
' '  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to  eye, 

Who  would   blush  when  I  praised  her,  and  weep  il 
I  blamed, 
How  blest  could  I  live,  and  bow  calm  could  I  die  ! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline, 

And  to  know  that  I  sigh'd  upon  innocent  lips, 

Which  had  never  been  sigh'd  on  by  any  but  mine  !  " 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

FROM    AN    EPISTLE   TO   THOMAS    HUME,    M.D. 

.  .  .  Observe  that  little  mount  of  pines, 
WTiere  the  breeze  murmurs  and  the  fire-fly  shines, 
There  let  thy  fancy  raise,  in  bold  relief, 
The  sculptured  image  of  that  veteran  chief* 

*  Eefen-ing  to  an  equestrian  statue  of  Washington  standing 
near  the  Capitol.— Editor. 


238        A  CANADIAN  BOAT'SONG. 

Who  lost  a  rebel's  in  the  hero's  name, 
And  stepp'd  o'er  prostrate  loyalty  to  fame  ; 
Beneath  whose  sword  Columbia's  patriot  train 
Cast  off  their  monarch,  that  their  mob  might  reign  ! 

How  shall  we  rank  thee  upon  glory's  page  ? 
Thou  more  than  soldier  and  just  less  than  sage  ! 
Too  form'd  for  peace  to  act  a  conqueror's  part, 
Too  train'd  in  camps  to  learn  a  statesman's  art, 
Nature  design'd  thee  for  a  hero's  mould, 
But,  ere  she  cast  thee,  let  the  stuff  grow  cold. 

While  warmer  souls  command,  nay,  make  their 
fate, 
Thy  fate  made  thee  and  forced  thee  to  be  great, 
Yet  fortune,  who  so  oft,  so  blindly  sheds 
Her  brightest  halo  round  the  weakest  heads, 
Found  thee  undazzled,  tranquil  as  before, 
Proud  to  be  useful,  scorning  to  be  more  ; 
Less  prompt  at  glory's  than  at  duty's  claim, 
Renown  the  meed,  but  self-applause  the  aim  ; 
All  thou  hast  been  reflects  less  fame  on  thee. 
Far  less  than  all  thou  hast  forborne  to  be  ! 


A  CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  RIVER  ST.   LAWRENCE. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime. 
Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim. 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 
Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past  ! 


IMPROMPTU.  239 

^Vhy  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl  ! 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore, 
Oh  !  sweetly  we'll  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past  ! 

Utawas'  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle  !  hear  our  prayers, 
Oh  !  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favouring  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past  ! 


IMPROMPTU, 

AFTER  A  VISIT  TO  MRS.  ,  OF  MONTREAL. 

'TwAS  but  for  a  moment — and  yet  in  that  time 
She  crowded  th'  impressions  of  many  an  hour  : 

Her  eye  had  a  glow  like  the  sun  of  her  clime. 
Which  waked  every  feeling  at  once  into  flower  ! 

Oh  !  could  we  have  spent  but  one  rapturous  day 
To  renew  such  impressions  again  and  again, 

The  things  we  should  look  and  imagine  and  say 

Would  be  worth  all  the  life  we  had  wasted  till  then  ! 

What  we  had  not  the  leisure  or  language  to  speak. 
We  should  find  some  ethereal  mode  of  revealing, 

And  between  us  should  feel  just  as  much  in  a  week 
As  others  would  take  a  millennium  in  feelinii  ! 


240  THE  FL  YING  D  UTCHMAN. 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN. 

WRITTEN  ON  PASSING  DEAD-MAN's  ISLAND.* 

See  you,  beneath  yon  cloud  so  dark, 

Fast  gliding  along,  a  gloomy  bark  ? 

Her  sails  are  full,  though  the  wind  is  still, 

And  there  blows  not  a  breath  her  sails  to  fill  ! 

Oh  !  what  doth  that  vessel  of  darkness  bear  ? 
The  silent  calm  of  the  grave  is  there. 
Save  now  and  again  a  death-knell  rung. 
And  the  flap  of  the  sails,  with  night-fog  hung  ! 

There  lieth  a  wreck  on  the  dismal  shore 
Of  cold  and  pitiless  Labrador  ; 
Where,  under  the  moon,  upon  mounts  of  frost, 
Full  many  a  mariner's  bones  are  tost  ! 

Yon  shadowy  bark  hath  been  to  that  wreck. 
And  the  dim  blue  fire  that  lights  her  deck 
Doth  play  on  as  pale  and  livid  a  crew 
As  ever  yet  drank  the  churchyard  dew  ! 

To  Dead-Man's  Isle,  in  the  eye  of  the  blast. 
To  Dead- Man's  Isle,  she  speeds  her  fast ; 
By  skeleton  shapes  her  sails  are  furl'd, 
And  the  hand  that  steers  is  not  of  this  world  ! 

Oh  !  hurry  thee  on — oh  !  hurry  thee  on, 
Thou  terrible  bark  !  ere  the  night  be  gone, 
Nor  let  morning  look  on  so  foul  a  sight 
As  would  blanch  for  ever  her  rosy  light  ! 

*  This  is  one  of  the  Magdalen  Islands  in  the  Gulf  of  St 
Lawrence,  and,  singularly  enough,  is  the  property  of  Sir  Isaac 
Coffin.  The  above  lines  were  suggested  by  a  superstition  very 
common  among  sailors,  who  call  this  ghost  ship,  I  think,  "  The 
Flying  Dutchman." 


THOUGH    TIS  ALL  BUT  A   DREA.V.  241 

LOVE  AND  THE  SUN-DIAL. 

Young  Love  found  a  Dial  once  in  a  dark  shade, 
Where  man  ne'er  had  wander"d  nor  sunbeam  play'd ; 
"  Why  thus  in  darkness  lie,"  whisper'd  young  Love ; 
*'  Thou  whose  gay  hours  in  sunshine  should  move?" 
*'  I  ne'er,"  said  the  Dial,  "  have  seen  the  warm  sun, 
So  noonday  and  midnight  to  me,  Love,  are  one." 

Then  Love  took  the  Dial  away  from  the  shade, 
And  placed  her  where  heaven's  beam  warmly  play'd, 
There  she  reclined,  beneath  Love's  gazing  eye, 
While,  all  mark'd  with  sunshine,  her  hours  flew  by. 
"  Oh,  how,"  said  the  Dial,  "can  any  fair  maid. 
That's  born  to  be  shone  upon,  rest  in  the  shade  ?  " 

But  night  now  comes  on,  and  the  sunbeam's  o'er. 
And  Love  stops  to  gaze  on  the  Dial  no  more. 
Then  cold  and  neglected,  while  bleak  rain  and  winds 
Are  storming  around  her,  with  sorrow  she  finds 
That  Love  had  but  number'd  a  few  sunny  hours. 
And  left  the  remainder  to  darkness  and  showers  ! 


THOUGH  'TIS  ALL  BUT  A  DREAM. 

Though  'tis  all  but  a  dream  at  the  best, 

And  still  when  happiest  soonest  o'er, 
Yet,  even  in  a  dream  to  be  blest 

Is  so  sweet,  that  I  ask  for  no  more. 
The  bosom  that  opes  with  earliest  hopes 

The  soonest  finds  those  hopes  untrue. 
As  flowers  that  first  in  spring-time  burst, 

The  earliest  wither  too  ! 
365 


242  OH  I   DAYS  OF  YOUTH. 

By  friendship  we  oft  are  deceived, 

And  find  the  love  we  ching  to  past ; 
Yet  friendship  will  still  be  believed 

And  love  trusted  on  to  the  last. 
The  web  in  the  leaves  the  spider  weaves 

Is  like  the  charm  Hope  hangs  o'er  men  ; 
Though  often  she  sees  it  broke  by  the  breeze, 

She  spins  the  bright  tissue  again. 


OH  !    DAYS  OF  YOUTH. 

Oh  !  days  of  youth  and  joy,  long  clouded, 

Why  thus  for  ever  haunt  my  view  ? 
When  in  the  grave  your  light  lay  shrouded, 

Why  did  Memory  not  die  there  too  ? 
Vainly  doth  Hope  her  strain  now  sing  me, 

Whispering  of  joys  that  yet  remain — 
No,  no,  never  more  can  this  life  bring  me 

One  joy  that  equals  youth's  sweet  pain. 

Dim  lies  the  way  to  death  before  me, 

Cold  winds  of  Time  blow  round  my  brow: 
Sunshine  of  youth  that  once  fell  o'er  me, 

Where  is  your  warmth,  your  glory  now  ?  • 
'Tis  not  that  then  no  pain  could  sting  me — 

'Tis  not  that  now  no  joys  remain  ; 
Oh  !  it  is  that  life  no  more  can  bring  me 

One  joy  so  sweet  as  that  worst  pain. 


PEACE  BE  AROUND  THEE.         243 

COME,  CHASE  THAT  STARTING  TEAR 
AWAY. 

Come,  chase  that  starting  tear  away, 

Ere  mine  to  meet  it  springs  ; 
To-night,  at  least,  to-night  be  gay, 

Whate'er  to-morrow  brings  ! 
Like  sunset  gleams  that  linger  late 

When  all  is  dark'ning  fast. 
Are  hours  like  these  we  snatch  from  Fate — 

The  brightest  and  the  last. 

To  gild  our  dark'ning  life,  if  Heaven 

But  one  bright  hour  allow, 
Oh  !  think  that  one  bright  hour  is  given, 

In  all  its  splendour,  now  ! 
Let's  live  it  out — then  sink  in  night 

Like  waves  that  from  the  shore 
One  minute  swell — are  touched  with  light — 

Then  lost  for  evermore. 


PEACE  BE  AROUND  THEE. 

Peace  be  around  thee,  wherever  thou  rovest ; 

May  life  be  for  thee  one  summer's  day, 
And  all  that  thou  wishest,  and  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Come  smiling  around  thy  sunny  way  ! 
If  sorrow  e'er  this  calm  should  break. 

May  even  thy  tears  pass  off  so  lightly  ; 
Like  spring-showers,  they'll  only  make 

The  smiles  that  follow  shine  more  brightly  I 


244  THERE  COMES  A   TIME. 

May  Time,  who  sheds  his  blight  o'er  all, 

And  daily  dooms  some  joy  to  death, 
O'er  thee  let  years  so  gently  fall 

They  shall  not  crush  one  tlower  beneath  ! 
As  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun, 

This  world  along  its  path  advances, 
May  that  side  the  sun's  upon 

Be  all  that  e'er  shall  meet  thy  glances  ! 


^ 


THERE  COMES  A  TIME. 

There  comes  a  time,  a  dreary  time, 

To  him  whose  heart  hath  flown 
O'er  all  the  fields  of  youth's  sweet  prime 

And  made  each  flower  its  own. 
'Tis  when  his  soul  must  first  renounce 

Those  dreams  so  bright,  so  fond  ; 
Oh  !  then's  the  time  to  die  at  once, 

For  Life  has  nought  beyond. 

\\nien  sets  the  sun  on  Afric's  shore, 

That  instant  all  is  night ; 
And  so  should  life  at  once  be  o'er, 

When  Love  withdraws  his  light — 
Nor,  like  our  northern  day,  gloom  on 

Through  twilight's  dim  delay, 
The  cold  remains  of  lustre  gone, 

Of  fire  long  passed  away. 


OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT.       245 


HARK  !  THE  VESPER  BELL  IS  STEALING. 

Hark  !  the  vesper  bell  is  stealing 
O'er  the  waters,  soft  and  clear  ; 
Nearer  yet  and  nearer  pealing, 

Jubilate,  Amen. 
Farther  now,  now  farther  stealing, 
Soft  it  fades  upon  the  ear. 
Jubilale,  Amen. 

Now,  like  moonlight  waves  retreating 

To  the  shore,  it  dies  along  ; 
Now,  like  angry  surges  meeting. 
Breaks  the  mingled  tide  of  song. 
Jubilate,  Amen. 
Hush  !  again,  like  waves,  retreating 
To  the  shore,  it  dies  along. 
Jubilate,  Amen. 

OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night. 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears. 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shone 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


246  ALL  THAT'S  BRLGHT  MUST  FADE. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather  \ 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garland's  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


ALL  THAT'S  BRIGHT  MUST  FADE. 

All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest. 
Stars  that  shine  and  fall  ; 

The  flower  that  drops  in  springing  ; 
These,  alas  !  are  types  of  all 

To  which  our  hearts  are  clinging. 

"S^'ho  would  seek  or  prize 

Delights  that  end  in  aching? 
Who  would  trust  to  ties 

That  every  hour  are  breaking? 
Better  far  to  be 

In  utter  darkness  lying, 
Than  be  blest  with  light  and  see 

That  light  for  ever  flying. 


YOUNG  AMERICA.  247 

REFLECTIONS  ON  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

FROM    AN    EPISTLE   TO   VISCOUNT    FORBES,  WRITTEN    IN 
WASHINGTON    IN    1804. 

Even  here,  beside  the  proud  Potomac's  stream, 

Might  sages  still  pursue  the  flattering  theme 

Of  days  to  come,  when  man  shall  conquer  fate, 

Rise  o'er  the  level  of  his  mortal  state. 

Belie  the  monuments  of  frailty  past, 

And  stamp  perfection  on  this  world  at  last. 

"  Here,"  might  they  say,  "  shall  power's  divided  reign 

Evince  that  patriots  have  not  bled  in  vain, 

Here  godlike  Liberty's  Herculean  youth, 

Cradled  in  peace,  and  nurtured  up  by  Truth 

To  full  maturity  of  nerve  and  mind. 

Shall  crush  the  giants  that  bestride  mankind  ! 

Here  shall  religion's  pure  and  balmy  draught 

In  form  no  more  from  cups  of  state  be  quaff  d, 

But  flow  for  all,  through  nation,  rank,  and  sect, 

Free  as  that  heaven  its  tranquil  waves  reflect. 

Around  the  columns  of  the  public  shrine 

Shall  growing  arts  their  gradual  wreath  entwine, 

Nor  breathe  corruption  from  their  flowering  braid, 

Nor  mine  that  fabric  which  they  bloom  to  shade. 

No  longer  here  shall  Justice  bound  her  view. 

Or  wrong  the  many  while  she  rights  the  few  ; 

But  take  her  range  through  all  the  social  frame, 

Pure  and  pervading  as  that  vital  flame, 

Which  warms  at  once  our  best  and  meanest  part. 

And  thrills  a  hair  while  it  expands  a  heart  !  " 

But  is  it  thus  ?  doth  even  the  glorious  dream 
Borrow  from  Truth  that  dim,  uncertain  gleam, 
Which  bids  us  give  such  dear  delusion  scope, 


i248  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

As  kills  not  reason,  while  it  nurses  hope  ? 
No,  no,  believe  me,  'tis  not  so — even  now, 
While  yet  upon  Columbia's  rising  brow 
The  showy  smile  of  young  presumption  plays, 
Her  bloom  is  poison'd  and  her  heart  decays  ! 
Even  now,  in  dawn  of  life,  her  sickly  breath 
Burns  with  the  taint  of  empires  near  their  death, 
And,  like  the  nymphs  of  her  own  withering  clime, 
She's  old  in  youth,  she's  blasted  in  her  prime  !  ! 

Already  has  the  child  of  Gallia's  school, 
The  foul  philosophy  that  sins  by  rule, 
With  all  her  train  of  reasoning,  damning  arts, 
Begot  by  brilliant  heads  on  worthless  hearts, 
Like  things  that  quicken,  after  Nilus'  flood, 
The  venom'd  birth  of  sunshine  and  of  mud  ! 
Already  has  she  pour'd  her  poison  here 
O'er  every  charm  that  makes  existence  dear. 
Already  blighted,  with  her  blackening  trace, 
The  opening  bloom  of  every  social  grace. 
And  all  those  courtesies,  that  love  to  shoot 
Round  virtue's  stem,  the  flowerets  of  her  fruit  ! 

Oh  !  were  these  errors  but  the  wanton  tide 
Of  young  luxuriance  or  unchasten'd  pride  ; 
The  fervid  follies  and  the  faults  of  such 
As  wrongly  feel,  because  they  feel  too  much, 
Then  might  experience  make  the  fever  less, 
Nay,  graft  a  virtue  on  each  warm  excess ; 
But  no  ;  'tis  heartless,  speculative  ill, 
All  youth's  transgression  with  all  age's  chill, 
The  apathy  of  wrong,  the  bosom's  ice, 
A  slow  and  cold  stagnation  into  vice  ! 

Long  has  the  love  of  gold,  that  meanest  rage 
And  latest  folly  of  man's  sinking  age, 


YOUNG  AMERICA.  249 

Which,  rarely  venturing  in  the  van  of  life, 
While  nobler  passions  wage  their  heated  strife, 
Comes  skulking  last,  with  selfishness  and  fear, 
And  dies,  collecting  lumber  in  the  rear  ! 
Long  has  it  palsied  every  grasping  hand 
And  greedy  spirit  through  this  bartering  land  ; 
Turn'd  life  to  traffic,  set  the  demon  gold 
So  loose  abroad,  that  virtue's  self  is  sold, 
And  conscience,  truth,  and  honesty  are  made 
To  rise  and  fall,  like  other  wares  of  trade  ! 

Already  in  this  free,  this  virtuous  state, 
Which,  Frenchmen  tell  us,  was  ordain'd  by  fate, 
To  shew  the  world  what  high  perfection  springs 
From  rabble  senators,  and  merchant  kings — 
Even  here  already  patriots  learn  to  steal 
Their  private  perquisites  from  public  weal. 
And,  guardians  of  the  country's  sacred  fire, 
Like  Afric's  priests,  they  let  the  flame  for  hire  ! 
Those  vaunted  demagogues,  who  nobly  rose 
From  England's  debtors  to  be  England's  foes, 
Who  could  their  monarch  in  their  purse  forget. 
And  break  allegiance,  but  to  cancel  debt, 
Have  proved  at  length  the  mineral's  tempting  hue 
WTiich  makes  a  patriot,  can  unmake  him  too. 
O  Freedom,  Freedom,  how  I  hate  thy  cant  ! 
Not  eastern  bombast,  not  the  savage  rant 
Of  purpled  madmen,  were  they  number'd  all, 
From  Roman  Nero  down  to  Russian  Paul, 
Could  grate  upon  my  ear  so  mean,  so  base, 
As  the  rank  jargon  of  that  factious  race, 
Who,  poor  ol  heart  and  prodigal  of  words, 
Born  to  be  slaves  and  struggling  to  be  lords, 
But  pant  for  licence,  while  they  spurn  control, 
And  shout  for  rights,  with  rapine  in  their  soul  ! 
Who  can,  with  patience,  for  a  moment  see 


250  YOUNG  AMERICA. 

The  medley  mass  of  pride  and  misery, 

or  whips  and  charters,  manacles  and  rights, 

Of  slaving  blacks  and  democratic  whites, 

And  all  the  piebald  polity  that  reigns 

In  free  confusion  o'er  Columbia's  plains  ? 

To  think  that  man,  thou  just  and  gentle  God  ! 

Should  stand  before  Thee,  with  a  tyrant's  rod 

O'er  creatures  like  himself,  with  souls  from  Thee, 

Yet  dare  to  boast  of  perfect  liberty  ; 

Away,  away — I'd  rather  hold  my  neck 

By  doubt ''ul  tenure  from  a  sultan's  beck, 

In  climes  where  liberty  has  scarce  been  named. 

Nor  any  right  but  that  of  ruling  claim'd. 

Than  thus  to  live,  where  bastard  freedom  waves 

Her  fustian  flag  in  mockery  over  slaves  ; 

Where  (motley  laws  admitting  no  degree 

Betwixt  the  vilely  slaved  and  madly  free) 

Alike  the  bondage  and  the  licence  suit 

The  brute  made  ruler  and  the  man  made  brute  ! 


FROM    AN    EPISTLE   TO   THE    HON.  W.    R.    SPENCER. 

All  that  creation's  varying  mass  assumes 
Of  grand  or  lovely  here  aspires  and  blooms  : 
Bold  rise  the  mountains,  rich  the  gardens  glow, 
Bright  lakes  expand  and  conquering  rivers  flow  ; 
Mind,  mind  alone,  in  barren,  still  repose. 
Nor  blooms,  nor  rises,  nor  expands,  nor  flows  ! 
Take  Christians,  Mohawks,  Democrats,  and  all, 
From  the  rude  wig- warn  to  the  congress  hall, 
From  man  the  savage,  whether  slaved  or  free, 
To  man  the  civilised,  less  tame  than  he  ! 
'Tis  one  dull  chaos,  one  unfertile  strife 
Betwixt  half-polish'd  and  half-barbarous  life  ; 


YOUNG  AMERICA.  251 

Where  every  ill  the  ancient  world  can  brew 
Is  mix'd  with  every  grossness  of  the  new  ; 
Where  all  corrupts,  though  little  can  entice, 
And  nothing's  known  of  luxury  but  vice  ! 

Is  this  the  region,  then,  is  this  the  clime 
For  golden  fancy  ?  for  these  dreams  sublime, 
Which  all  their  miracles  of  light  reveal 
To  heads  that  meditate  and  hearts  that  feel  ? 
No,  no — the  muse  of  inspiration  plays 
O'er  every  scene  ;  she  walks  the  forest-maze, 
And  climbs  the  mountain  ;  every  blooming  spot 
Burns  with  her  step,  yet  man  regards  it  not  ! 
She  whispers  round,  her  words  are  in  the  air. 
But  lost,  unheard,  they  linger  freezing  there, 
Without  one  breath  of  soul,  divinely  strong, 
One  ray  of  heart  to  thaw  them  into  song  ! 

Yet,  yet  forgive  me,  O  you  sacred  few  ! 
WTiom  late  by  Delaware's  green  banks  I  knew  ; 
WTiom,  known  and  loved,  through  many  a  social  eve, 
'Twas  bliss  to  live  with,  and  'twas  pain  to  leave  ! 
Less  dearly  welcome  were  the  lines  of  yore 
The  exile  saw  upon  the  sandy  shore, 
When  his  lone  heart  but  faintly  hoped  to  find 
One  print  of  man,  one  blessed  stamp  of  mind  ! 
Less  dearly  welcome  than  the  liberal  zeal, 
The  strength  to  reason  and  the  warmth  to  feel. 
The  manly  polish  and  the  illumined  taste, 
Which,  'mid  the  melancholy,  heartless  waste 
My  foot  has  wander'd,  O  you  sacred  few  ! 
I  found  by  Delaware's  green  banks  with  you. 
Long  may  you  hate  the  Gallic  dross  that  runs 
O'er  your  fair  country  and  corrupts  its  sons  ; 
Long  love  the  arts,  the  glories  which  adorn 
Those  fields  of  freedom  where  your  sires  were  bom. 


252         LORD  BYRON'S  MEMOIRS. 

Oh  !  if  America  can  yet  be  great, 

If  neither  chain'd  by  choice  or  damn'd  by  fate 

To  the  mob-mania  which  imbrutes  her  now, 

She  yet  can  raise  the  bright  but  temperate  brow 

Of  single  majesty,  and  grandly  place 

An  empire's  pillar  upon  freedom's  base, 

Nor  fear  the  mighty  shaft  will  feebler  prove 

For  the  fair  capital  that  flowers  above  ! — 

If  yet,  released  from  all  that  vulgar  throng. 

So  vain  of  dulness  and  so  pleased  with  wrong, 

Who  hourly  teach  her,  hke  themselves,  to  hide 

Folly  in  froth,  and  barrenness  in  pride, 

She  yet  can  rise,  can  wreathe  the  Attic  charms 

Of  soft  refinement  round  the  pomp  of  arms, 

And  see  her  poets  flash  the  fires  of  song, 

To  light  her  warriors'  thunderbolts  along  ! — 

It  is  to  you,  to  souls  that  favouring  Heaven 

Has  made  like  yours,  the  glorious  task  is  given. 

Oh  !  but  for  such,  Columbia's  days  were  done  ; 

Rank  without  ripeness,  quicken'd  without  sun, 

Crude  at  the  surface,  rotten  at  the  core. 

Her  fruits  would  fall  before  her  spring  was  o'er  ! 


LORD  BYRON'S  MEMOIRS. 

[From  ^^ Rhymes  on  the  Road.'^) 

Venice. 
Let  me,  a  moment — ere  with  fear  and  hope 
Of  gloomy,  glorious  things,  these  leaves  I  ope — 
As  one,  in  fairy  tale,  to  whom  the  key 

Of  some  enchanter's  secret  halls  is  given. 
Doubts,  while  he  enters,  slowly,  tremblingly, 
If  he  shall  meet  with  shapes  from  hell  or  heaven- 


LORD  BYRON'S  MEMOIRS.  253 

Let  me,  a  moment,  think  what  thousands  live 

O'er  the  wide  earth  this  instant,  who  would  give. 

Gladly,  whole  sleepless  nights  to  bend  the  brow 

Over  these  precious  leaves,  as  I  do  now. 

How  all  who  know — and  where  is  he  unknown  ? 

To  what  far  region  have  his  songs  not  flown, 

Like  Psaphon's  birds,  speaking  their  master's  name 

In  every  language  syllabled  by  Fame  ? — 

How  all,  who've  felt  the  various  spells  combined 

Within  the  circle  of  that  splendid  mind, 

Like  powers,  derived  from  many  a  star,  and  met 

Together  in  some  wondrous  amulet. 

Would  burn  to  know  when  first  the  light  awoke 

In  his  young  soul, — and  if  the  gleams  that  broke 

From  thai  Aurora  of  his  genius,  raised 

More  bliss  or  pain  in  those  on  whom  they  blazed — 

Would  love  to  trace  the  unfolding  of  that  power, 

Which  hath  grown  ampler,  grander,  every  hour ; 

And  feel,  in  watching  o'er  its  first  advance, 

As  did  the  Egyptian  traveller,  when  he  stood 
By  the  young  Kile,  and  fathomed  with  his  lance 

The  first  small  fountains  of  that  mighty  flood. 


They,  too,  who  'mid  the  scornful  thoughts  that  dwell 

In  his  rich  fancy,  tingling  all  its  streams. 
As  if  the  Star  of  Bitterness  which  fell 

On  earth  of  old,  and  touched  them  with  its  beams, 
Can  track  a  spirit,  which,  though  driven  to  hate, 
From  Nature's  hands  came  kind,  affectionate  ; 
And  which,  even  now,  struck  as  it  is  with  blight, 
Comes  out,  at  times,  in  love's  own  native  light — 
How  gladly  all,  who've  watched  these  struggling  rays 
Of  a  bright,  ruined  spirit  through  his  lays. 
Would  here  inquire,  as  from  his  own  frank  lips, 
What  desolating  grief,  what  wrongs  had  driven 


254       THE  DEATH  OF  SHERIDAN. 

That  noble  nature  into  cold  eclipse — 

Like  some  fair  orb  that,  once  a  sun  in  Heaven, 
And  born,  not  only  to  surprise,  but  cheer 
With  warmth  and  lustre  all  within  its  sphere, 
Is  now  so  quenched,  that,  of  its  grandeur,  lasts 
Nought  but  the  wide  cold  shadow  which  it  casts  ! 

Eventful  volume  !  whatsoe'er  the  change 

Of  scene  and  clime — the  adventures,  bold  and  strange— 

The  griefs — the  frailties,  but  too  frankly  told — 

The  loves,  the  feuds  thy  pages  may  unfold  ; 

If  truth,  with  half  so  prompt  a  hand  unlocks 

His  virtues  as  his  failings,  we  shall  find 
The  record  there  of  friendships,  held  like  rocks, 

And  enmities,  like  sun-touched  snow,  resigned — 
Of  fealty,  cherished  without  change  or  chill, 
In  those  who  served  him  young,  and  serve  him  still — 
Of  generous  aid,  given  with  that  noiseless  art 
Which  wakes  not  pride,  to  many  a  wounded  heart — 
Of  acts — but,  no — not  from  himself  must  aught 
Of  the  bright  features  of  his  life  be  sought. 
While  they  who  court  the  world,  like  Milton's  cloud, 
*'  Turn  forth  their  silver  lining  "  on  the  crowd, 
This  gifted  Being  wraps  himself  in  night, 

And,  keeping  all  that  softens,  and  adorns, 
And  gilds  his  social  nature,  hid  from  sight, 

Turns  but  its  darkness  on  a  world  he  scorns. 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SHERIDAN. 
Principibiis  placuisse  viris. — JTor. 
Yes,  grief  will  have  way — but  the  fast-falling  tear 

Shall  be  mingled  with  deep  execrations  on  those 
Who  could  bask  in  that  spirit's  meridian  career, 
And  yet  leave  it  thus  lonely  and  dark  at  its  close  ; — 


THE  DEATH  OF  SHE  RID  AX.       255 

"Whose  vanity  flew  round  him  only  while  fed 

By  the  odour  his  fame  in  its  summer-time  gave  ; 

\Miose  vanity  now,  with  quick  scent  for  the  dead, 

Like  the  ghole  of  the  East,  comes  to  feed  at  his  grave. 

Oh  !  it  sickens  the  heart  to  see  bosoms  so  hollow 
And  spirits  so  mean  in  the  great  and  high-born  ; 

To  think  what  a  long  line  of  titles  may  follow 
The  relics  of  him  who  died — friendless  and  lorn  ; 

How  proud  they  can  press  to  the  funeral  array 

Of  one  whom  they  shunned  in  his  sickness  and  sorrow  ! 

How  bailiffs  may  seize  his  last  blanket  to-day, 

Whose  pall  shall  be  held  up  by  nobles  to-morrow  ! 

And  thou,  too,  whose  life,  a  sick  epicure's  dream, 
Incoherent  and  gross,  even  grosser  had  passed. 

Were  it  not  for  that  cordial  and  soul-giving  beam 

Which  his  friendship  and  wit  o'er  thy  nothingness  cast : 

No,  not  for  the  wealth  of  the  land  that  supplies  thee 
With  millions  to  heap  upon  foppery's  shrine  ; — 

No,  not  for  the  riches  of  all  who  despise  thee, 

Though    this   would   make    Europe's  whole  opulence 
mine  ; — 

Would  I  suffer  what — even  in  the  heart  that  thou  hast, 

All  mean  as  it  is — must  have  consciously  burned, 
When  the  pittance,  which  shame  had  wrung  from  thee  at 
last. 
And    which    found   all    his    wants   at    an    end,    was 
returned  1* 

*  The  sum  was  two  hundred  pounds— o/ereZ  when  Sheridan 
could  no  longer  take  any  sustenance,  ana  declined  for  him  by 

his  friends. 


256        THE  DEA  TH  OF  SHERIDAN. 

"  Was  this,  then,  the  fate  " — future  ages  will  say, 
When  some  names  shall  live  but  in  history's  curse  ; 

WTien  Truth  will  be  heard,  and  these  lords  of  a  day 
Be  forgotten  as  fools,  or  remembered  as  worse — 

•-•  Was  this,  then,  the  fate  of  that  high-gifted  man, 
The  pride  of  the  palace,  the  bower,  and  the  hall, 

The  orator — dramatist — minstrel, — who  ran 

Through  each  mode  of  the  lyre,  and  was  master  of  all ! 

"  Whose  mind  was  an  essence,  compounded  with  art 
From  the  finest  and  best  of  all  other  men's  powers — 

Who  ruled,  like  a  wizard,  the  world  of  the  heart, 

And  could  call  up  its  sunshine,   or   bring   down   its 
showers. 

"  Whose  humour,  as  gay  as  the  fire-fly's  light. 

Played  round  every  subject,  and  shone  as  it  played — 

Whose  wit,  in  the  combat,  as  gentle  as  bright, 
Ne'er  carried  a  heart-stain  away  on  its  blade ; 

'•  Whose  eloquence — brightening  whatever  it  tried, 
Whether  reason  or  fancy,  the  gay  or  the  grave — 

Was  as  rapid,  as  deep,  and  as  brilliant  a  tide 
As  ever  bore  Freedom  aloft  on  its  wave  !  " 

Yes — such  was  the  man,  and  so  wretched  his  fate ; — 
And  thus,  sooner  or  later,  shall  all  have  to  grieve. 

Who  waste  their  morn's  dew  in  the  beams  of  the  Great, 
And  expect  'twill  return  to  refresh  them  at  eve  ! 

In  the  woods  of  the  North  there  are  insects  that  prey 
On  the  brain  of  the  elk  till  his  very  last  sigh  ; 

Oh,  Genius  !  thy  patrons,  more  cruel  than  they, 

First  feed  on  thy  brains,  and  then  leave  thee  to  die  ! 


SacreD  Qowq^. 


366 


SACRED  SONGS. 


THOU  ART,  O  GOD. 

Thou  art,  O  God,  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wond'rous  world  we  see  ; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  by  night, 
Are  but  reflections  caught  from  Thee. 

Where'er  we  turn  Thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine  ! 

When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  op'ning  clouds  of  even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 
Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven — 

Those  hues  that  make  the  sun's  decline 

So  soft,  so  radiant,  Lord  !  are  Thine. 

\\Tien  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose  plume 
Is  sparkling  with  unnumber'd  eyes — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  fires  divine, 

So  grand,  so  countless,  Lord  !  are  Thine. 

When  youthful  spring  around  us  breathes, 
Thy  Spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 

And  every  flower  the  summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

Where'er  we  turn.  Thy  glories  shine. 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine  ! 


26o  O  THOU  WHO  DRV  ST. 

THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  A  FLEETING  SHOW. 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given  ; 
The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe, 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow — 

There's  nothing  true  but  Heaven  ! 

And  false  the  light  on  glory's  plume, 

As  fading  hues  of  even  ; 
And  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Beauty's  bloom 
Are  blossoms  gather'd  for  the  tomb — • 

There's  nothing  bright  but  Heaven  ! 

Poor  wand'rers  of  a  stormy  day  ! 

From  wave  to  wave  we're  driven, 
And  fancy's  flash  and  reason's  ray 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way — 

There's  nothing  calm  but  Heaven  ! 

O  THOU  WHO  DRY'ST  THE  MOURNER'S 
TEAR. 

O  Thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear, 

How  dark  this  world  would  be, 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  Thee. 
The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live, 

When  winter  comes,  are  flown  ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give. 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But  Thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart, 

Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part, 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 


SOUND  THE  LOUD  TIMBREL.      261 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers. 

And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears 

Is  dimm'd  and  vanish'd  too  ! 
Oh,  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom, 

Did  not  Thy  wing  of  love 
Come,  brightly  watting  through  the  gloom 

Our  Peace-branch  from  above  ? 
Then  sorrow,  touch' d  by  Thee,  grows  bright 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray  : 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  never  saw  by  day  ! 


SOUND  THE  LOUD  TIMBREL. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ! 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd— His  people  are  free  ! 
Sing — for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken, 

His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and  brave, 
Hov/   vain   was  their   boasting! — the    Lord   hath  but 
spoken. 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  have  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  ! 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — His  people  are  free  ! 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord  ! 

His  word  was  our  arrow.  His  breath  was  our  sword. 

Who  shall  return  to  tell  Eg>-pt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  ? 
For  the  Lord  hath  look'd  out  from  His  pillar  of  glory, 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dash'd  in  the  tide. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  ! 
Jehovah  has  triumph'd — His  people  are  free  I 


262  WEEP  NOT  FOR  THOSE. 


WEEP  NOT  FOR  THOSE. 

Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb 

In  life's  happy  morning  hath  hid  from  our  eyes, 
Ere  sin  threw  a  blight  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom, 

Or  earth  had  profaned  what  was  born  for  the  skies. 
Death  chill'd  the  fair  fountain  ere  sorrow  had  stain'd  it, 

'Twas  frozen  in  all  the  pure  light  of  its  course, 
And  but  sleeps  till  the  sunshine  of  heaven  has  unchain'd 
it, 

To  water  that  Eden  where  first  was  its  source. 
Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb 

In  life's  happy  morning  hath  hid  from  our  eyes. 
Ere  sin  threw  a  blight  o'er  the  spirit's  young  bloom, 

Or  earth  had  profaned  what  was  born  for  the  skies. 

Mourn  not  for  her,  the  young  bride  of  the  vale, 

Our  gayest  and  loveliest,  lost  to  us  now, 
Ere  life's  early  lustre  had  time  to  grow  pale, 

And  the  garland  of  love  was  yet  fresh  on  her  brow. 
Oh,  then  was  her  moment,  dear  spirit,  for  flying 

From  this  gloomy  world,  while  its  gloom  was  unknown — 
And  the  wild  hymns  she  warbled  so  sweetly,  in  dying, 

Were  echo'd  in  heaven  by  lips  like  her  own  ! 
Weep  not  for  her — in  her  spring-time  she  flew 

To  that  land  where  the  wings  of  the  soul  are  unfurl'd  ; 
And  now,  like  a  star  beyond  evening's  cold  dew, 

Looks  radiantly  down  on  the  tears  of  this  world. 


HUMOROUS  AND  SATIRICAL. 


THE  PETITION  OF  THE  ORANGEMEN  OF 
IRELAND. 

To  the  people  of  England,  the  humble  Petition 
Of  Ireland's  disconsolate  Orangemen,  showing — 

That  sad,  very  sad,  is  our  present  condition  ; — 

That  our  jobs  are  all  gone,  and  our  noble  selves  g^ing  ; 

That,  forming  one-seventh — within  a  few  fractions — 
Of  Ireland's  seven  millions  of  hot  heads  and  hearts, 

We  hold  it  the  basest  of  all  base  transactions 
To  keep  us  from  murdering  the  other  six  parts  : 

That,  as  to  laws  made  for  the  good  of  the  many, 
We  humbly  suggest  there  is  nothing  less  true  ; 

As  all  human  laws  (and  our  own  more  than  any) 
Are  made  by  a.Ti.d/or  a  particular  few  ; — 

That  much  it  delights  every  true  Orange  brother 
To  see  you,  in  England,  such  ardour  evince, 

In  discussing  ivhich  sect  most  tormented  the  other, 

And    burned  with    most  gusfo,   some   hundred    years 
since ; — 

That  we  love  to  behold,  while  Old  England  grows  faint, 
Messrs.  Southey  and  Butler  near  coming  to  blows. 

To  decide  whether  Dunstan,  that  strong-bodied  saint, 
Ever  truly  and  really  pulled  the  devil's  nose  ; 


266         ORANGEMEN'S  PETITION. 

Whether  t'other  saint,  Dominic,  burnt  the  devil's  paw— 
Whether  Edwy  intrigued  with  Elgiva's  old  mother — 

And  many  such  points,  from  which  Southey  doth  draw 
Conclusions  most  apt  for  our  hating  each  other. 

That  'tis  very  well  known  this  devout  Irish  nation 

Has  now  for  some  ages  gone  happily  on. 
Believing  in  two  kinds  of  Substantiation, 

One  party  in  Trans,  and  the  other  in  Con. 

That  we,  your  petitioning  Cons^  have,  in  right 
Of  the  said  monosyllable,  ravaged  the  lands, 

And  embezzled  the  goods,  and  annoyed,  day  and  night, 
Both  the  bodies  and  souls  of  the  sticklers  for  Trans  ; — • 

That  we  trust  to  Peel,  Eldon,  and  other  such  sages, 
For  keeping  us  still  in  the  same  state  of  mind  ; 

Pretty  much  as  the  world  used  to  be  in  those  ages, 
When  still  smaller  syllables  maddened  mankind  ; — 

When  the  words  ex  and  per*  served  as  well,  to  annoy 
One's  neighbours  and  friends  with,  as  con  and  trans 
now  ; 

And  Christians,  like  Southey,  who  stickled  for  oi, 
Cut  the  throats  of  all  Christians  who  stickled  for  ou.']' 

That,  relying  on  England,  whose  kindness  already 
So  often  has  helped  us  to  play  the  game  o'er, 

We  have  got  our  red  coats  and  our  carabines  ready, 
And  wait  but  the  word  to  show  sport,  as  before. 

*  When  John  of  Ragusa  went  to  Constantinople  (at  the  time 
this  dispute  between  ex  and  j^er  was  goins  on),  he  found  the 
Turks,  we  are  told,  "laughing  at  the  Christians  for  being 
divided  by  two  such  insignificant  particles." 

t  The  Arian  controversy.— Before  that  time,  says  Hooker, 
"in  order  to  be  a  sound  believing  Christian,  men  were  not 
curious  what  syllables  or  particles  of  speech  they  used." 


FROM  LARRY  0 'BRANNIGAN.      267 

That,  as  to  the  expense — the  few  millions,  or  so, 

Which  for  all  such  diversions  John  Bull  has  to  pay — 

'Tis,  at  least,  a  great  comfort  to  John  Bull  to  know- 
That  to  Orangemen's  pockets  'twill  all  find  its  way. 

For  which  your  petitioners  ever  will  pray, 

Etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 


FROM   LARRY   O'BRANNIGAN,  IN   ENGLAND, 
TO  HIS  WIFE  JUDY,  AT  MULLINAFAD. 

{Ftovi  "  The  Fudges  in  England.'") 

Dear  Judy,  I  send  you  this  bit  of  a  letther 

By  mail-coach  conveyance — for  want  of  a  betther — 

To  tell  you  what  luck  in  this  world  I  have  had 

Since  I  left  the  sweet  cabin,  at  jNIullinafad. 

Och,  Judy,  that  night ! — when  the  pig,  which  we  meant 

To  dry-nurse  in  the  parlour,  to  pay  off  the  rent, 

Julianna,  the  craythur — that  name  was  the  death  of  her* — 

Gave  us  the  shlip,  and  we  saw  the  last  breath  of  her  .' 

And  there  were  the  childher,  six  innocent  sowls. 

For  their  nate  little  playfellow  tuning  up  howls  ; 

While  yourself,  my  dear  Judy  (though  grievin  's  a  folly), 

Stud  over  Julianna's  remains,  melancholy — 

Cryin',  half  for  the  craythur,  and  half  for  the  money, 

"  Arrah,  why  did  you  die  till  we'd  sowld  you,  my  honey?" 

But  God's  will  be  done  ! — and  then,  faith,  sure  enough, 
As  the  pig  was  desaiced,  'twas  high  time  to  be  otf, 
So  we  gathered  up  all  the  poor  duds  we  could  catch, 
Lock'd  the  owld  cabin-door,  put  the  kay  in  the  thatch, 

*  The  Irish  peasantry  are  very  fond  of  giving  fine  names  to 
their  pigs.  I  have  heard  of  one  instance  in  which  a  couple  of 
young  pigs  were  named,  at  their  birth,  Abelard  and  Eloisa. 


268      FROM  LARRY  O'BRANNIGAN. 

Then  tuk  laave  of  each  other's  sweet  lips  in  the  dark, 
And  set  off,  like  the  Chrishtians  turn'd  out  of  the  Ark  ; 
The  six  childher  with  you,  my  dear  Judy,  ochone  ! 
And  poor  I  wid  myself,  left  condolin'  alone. 

How  I  caine  to  this  England,  o'er  say  and  o'er  lands, 
And  what  cruel  hard  walkin'  I've  had  on  my  hands, 
Is,  at  this  present  writin',  too  tadious  to  speak, 
So  I'll  mintion  it  all  in  a  postscript,  next  week  : — 
Only  shtarv'd  I  was,  surely,  as  thin  as  a  lath. 
Till  I  came  to  an  up-and-down  place  they  call  Bath, 
Where,  as  luck  was,  I  manag'd  to  make  a  meal's  meat, 
By  dhraggin  owld  ladies  all  day  through  the  street — 
\Vhich  their  docthors  (who  pocket,  like  fun,  the  pound 

starlins), 
Have  brought  into  fashion,  to  plase  the  owld  darlins. 
Div'l  a  boy  in  all  Bath,  though  /  say  it,  could  carry 
The  grannies  up  hill  half  so  handy  as  Larry ; 
And  the  higher  they  liv'd,  like  owld  crows,  in  the  air, 
The  more  I  was  wanted  to  lug  them  up  there. 

But  luck  has  two  handles,  dear  Judy,  they  say. 

And  mine  has  both  handles  put  on  the  wrong  way. 

For,  pondherin',  one  morn,  on  a  dhrame  I'd  just  had 

Of  yourself  and  the  babbies,  at  Mullinafad, 

Och,  there  came  o'er  my  sinses  so  plasin'  a  flutther, 

That  I  spilt  an  owld  Countess  right  clane  in  the  gutther. 

Muff,  feathers  and  all  ! — the  descint  was  most  awful. 

And — what  was  still  worse,  faith — I  knew  'twas  unlawful; 

For,  though,  with  mere  luoincn,  no  very  great  evil, 

T'  upset  an  owld  Countess  in  Bath  is  the  divil  ! 

So,  liftin'  the  chair,  with  herself  safe  upon  it 

(For  nothin'  about  her  was  kilt,  but  her  bonnet), 

Without  even  mentionin'  "  By  your  lave,  ma'am," 

I  tuk  to  my  heels  and — here,  Judy,  I  am  ! 


FROM  LARRY  O'BRAXXIGAN.      269 

WTiat's  the  name  of  this  town  I  can't  say  very  well, 

But  your  heart  sure  will  jump  when  you  hear  what  befell 

Your  own  beautiful  Larry,  the  very  first  day 

(And  a  Sunday  it  was,  shinin'  out  mighty  gay), 

When  his  brogues  to  this  city  of  luck  found  their  way. 

Bein'  hungry,  God  help  me,  and  happenin'  to  shtop, 

Just  to  dine  on  the  shmell  of  a  pasthry-cook's  shop, 

I  saw,  in  the  window,  a  large  printed  paper, 

And  read  there  a  name,  och  !  that  made  my  heart  caper — 

Though  printed  it  was  in  some  quare  ABC, 

That  might  bother  a  schoolmasther,  let  alone  7}ie. 

By   gar,    you'd   have   laughed,  Judy,   could   you've   but 

listen'd, 
As,  doubtin',  I  cried,  "  WTiy  it  is  ! — no,  it  isti't : " 
But  it  was,  after  all — for,  by  spellin'  quite  slow, 
First  I    made   out — "Rev.   Mortimer" — then    a  great 

"O;" 
And,  at  last,  by  hard  readin'  and  rackin'  my  skull  again, 
Out  it  came,  nate  as  imported,  '*  O'Mulligan  !  " 

Up  I  jump'd,  like  a  skylark,  my  jew'l,  at  that  name, 

Div'l  a  doubt  on  ray  mind,  but  it  mus^  be  the  same. 

"  Masther  Murthagh,  himself,"  says  I,   "all   the  world 

over  ! 
My  own  fosther-brother — by  jinks,  I'm  in  clover. 
Though  there,  in  the  play-bill,  he  figures  so  grand, 
One  wet-nurse  it  was  brought  us  doi/i  up  by  hand, 
And  he'll  not  let  me  shtarve  in  the  inimy's  land  ! " 

•Well,  to  make  a  long  hishtory  short,  nivor  doubt 
But  I  manag'd,  in  no  time,  to  find  the  lad  out ; 
And  the  joy  of  the  meeiin'  bethuxt  him  and  me — 
Such  a  pair  of  owld  cumrogues — was  charmin'  to  see. 
Nor  is  ^lurthagh  less  plas'd  with  the  evint  than  I  am, 
And  he  just  then  was  wanting  a  Valley-de-sham  ; 


270      FROM  LARRY  O'BRANNIGAN. 

And,  for  dressin  a  gintleman,  one  way  or  t'other, 
Your  nate  Irish  lad  is  beyant  every  other. 

But  now,  Judy,  comes  the  quare  part  of  the  case  ; 
And,  in  throth,  it's  the  only  drawback  on  my  place. 
'Twas  Murthagh's  ill  luck  to  be  cross'd,  as  you  know. 
With  an  awkward  mish fortune  some  short  time  ago  ; 
That's  to  say,  he  turn'd  Prostestant — why,  I  can't  larn  ; 
But,  of  coorse,  he  knew  best,  an'  it's  not  ??iy  consarn. 
All  I  know  is,  we  both  were  good  Cath'lics,  at  nurse, 
And  myself  am  so  suU — nayther  betther  nor  worse. 
Well,  our  bargain  was  all  right  and  tight  in  ajifiey, 
And  lads  more  contint  never  yet  left  the  Liffey, 
When  Murthagh — or  Morthimer,  as  he's  now  chrishen'd. 
His  ita??ie  being  convarted,  at  laist,  li  he  isn't — 
Lookin'  shly  at  me  (faith,  'twas  divartin'  to  see), 
"  Of  coorse,  you're  a  Protestant,  Larry,"  says  he. 
Upon  which  says  myself,  wid  a  wink  just  as  shly, 
"  Is't  a  Prostestant? — Oh  yes,  I  am,  sir,"  says  I ; — 
And  there  the  chat  ended,  and  div'l  a  more  word 
Conthrovarsial  between  us  has  since  then  occurr'd. 
What  Murthagh  could  mane,  and,  in  troth,  Judy,  dear, 
What  I  ??ivself  m&d,ni,  doesn't  seem  mighty  clear  ; 
But  the  thruth  is,   though  still  for  the   Owld    Light  a 

stickler, 
I  was  just  then  too  shtarv'd  to  be  over  partic'lar  : — 
And,  God  knows,  between  us,  a  comic'ler  pair 
Of  twin  Prostestants  could'nt  be  seen  attywhexe. 

Next  Tuesday  (as  towld  in  the  play-bills  I  mintion'd, 
Address'd  to  the  loyal  and  godly  intintion'd). 
His  rivirence,  my  master,  comes  forward  to  preach, 
Myself  doesn't  know  whether  sarmon  or  speech, 
But  it's  all  one  to  him,  he's  a  dead  hand  at  each  ; 
Like  us,  Paddys,  in  gin'ral,  whose  skill  in  orations 
Quite  bothers  the  blarney  of  all  other  nations. 


ORIGIN  OF  WOMEN.  271 

But,  whisht  ! — there's  his  rivirence,  shoutin'  out  "  Larry," 

And  sorra  a  word  more  will  this  shmall  paper  carry ; 

So,  here,  Judy,  ends  my  short  bit  of  a  letther, 

Which,  faix,  I'd  have  made  a  much  bigger  and  betther, 

But  div'l  a  one  Post-office  hole  in  this  town 

Fit  to  swallow  a  dacent  siz'd  billy-dux  down. 

So  good  luck  to  the  childer  ! — tell  Molly,  I  love  her  ; 

Kiss  Oonagh's  sweet  mouth,  and  kiss  Katty  all  over — 

Not  forgettin'  the  mark  of  the  red -currant  whisky 

She  got  at  the  fair  when  yourself  was  so  frisky. 

The  heav'ns   be   your  bed  ! — I  will    write,  when  I  can 

again, 
Yours  to  the  world's  end, 

Larry  O'Brannigan. 


THE  RABBINICAL  ORIGIN  OF  WOMEN. 

They  tell  us  that  woman  was  made  of  a  rib 
Just  pick'd  from  a  corner  so  snug  in  the  side ; 

But  the  Rabbins  swear  to  you  this  is  a  fib, 

And  'twas  not  so  at  all  that  the  sex  was  supplied. 

For  old  Adam  was  fashion'd  the  first  of  his  kind 
With  a  tail  like  a  monkey,  full  yard  and  a  span ; 

And  when  Nature  cut  off  this  appendage  behind. 
Why — then  woman  was  made  of  the  tail  of  the  Man. 

If  such  is  the  tie  between  women  and  men, 

The  ninny  who  weds  is  a  pitiful  elf; 
For  he  takes  to  his  tail,  like  an  idiot,  again. 

And  makes  a  most  damnable  ape  of  himself ! 

Yet,  if  we  may  judge  as  the  fashions  prevail, 
Every  husband  remembers  the  original  plan, 

And,  knowing  his  wife  is  no  more  than  his  tail. 

Why — he  leaves  her  behind  him,  as  much  as  he  can 


272  LINES  ON  LEIGH  HUNT. 

LINES  ON  LEIGH  HUNT. 
{Suggested  by  Hunt's  '^ Byron  ajid  his  Contemporaries.'") 

Next  week  will  be  published  (as  **  Lives  "  are  the  rage) 
The  whole  Reminiscences,  wondrous  and  strange, 

Of  a  small  pupj^y-dog  that  lived  once  in  the  cage 
Of  the  late  noble  lion  at  Exeter  'Change. 

Though  the  dog  is  a  dog  of  the  kind  they  call  "sad," 
'Tis  a  puppy  that  much  to  good  breeding  pretends ; 

And  few  dogs  have  such  opportunities  had 

Of  knowing  how  lions  behave — among  friends. 

How  that  animal  eats,  how  he  moves,  how  he  drinks, 
Is  all  noted  down  by  this  Boswell  so  small ; 

And  'tis  plain,  from  each  sentence,  the  puppy-dog  thinks 
That  the  lion  was  no  such  great  things  after  all. 

Though  he  roar'd  pretty  well — this  the  puppy  allows — 
It  was  all,  he  says,  borrow'd — all  second-hand  roar  ; 

And  he  vastly  prefers  his  own  little  bow-wows 
To  the  loftiest  war-note  the  lion  could  pour. 

'Tis  indeed  as  good  fun  as  a  Cynic  could  ask, 
To  see  how  this  cockney-bred  setter  of  rabbits 

Takes  gravely  the  lord  of  the  forest  to  task. 
And  judges  ol  lions  by  puppy-dog  habits. 

Nay,  fed  as  he  was  (and  this  makes  it  a  dark  case) 
With  sops  every  day  from  the  lion's  own  pan, 

He  lifts  up  his  leg  at  the  noble  beast's  carcase, 
And — does  all  a  dog,  so  diminutive,  can. 

However,  the  book's  a  good  book,  being  rich  in 
Examples  and  warnings  to  lions  high-bred, 

IIow  they  suffer  small  mongrelly  curs  in  their  kitchen, 
Who'll  feed  on  them  living,  and  foul  them  when  dead. 


WHEN  LOVE  IS  KIND.  273 

WHEN  LOVE  IS  KIND. 

When  Love  is  kind, 

Cheerful  and  free, 
Love's  sure  to  find 

Welcome  from  me. 

But  when  Love  brings 

Heartache  or  pang, 
Tears  and  such  things — 

Love  may  go  hang  I 

If  Love  can  sigh 

For  one  alone, 
Well  pleased  am  I 

To  be  that  one. 

But  should  I  see 

Love  giv'n  to  rove 
To  two  or  three, 

Then— good-bye,  Love  I 

Love  must,  in  short, 

Keep  fond  and  true, 
Through  good  report, 

And  evil  too. 

Else,  here  I  swear. 

Young  Love  may  go, 
For  aught  I  care — 

To  Jericho, 


367 


S5rev(tie0, 


BRE  VITIES. 


THE  SURPRISE. 

Chloris,  I  swear,  by  all  I  ever  swore, 

That  from  this  hour  I  shall  not  love  thee  more. — 

"  What  !  love  no  more  ?    Oh  !  why  this  alter 'd  vow  ? 
Because  I  cannot  love  thee  more  than  now  ! 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT. 

How  oft  a  cloud,  with  envious  veil, 

Obscures  yon  bashful  light, 
Which  seems  so  modestly  to  steal 

Along  the  waste  of  night  ! 
"Tis  thus  the  world's  obtrusive  wrongs 

Obscure  with  malice  keen 
Some  timid  heart,  which  only  longs 

To  live  and  die  unseen  ! 


SCIENCE. 

Science  !  to  you 
I  have  long  bid  a  last  and  a  careless  adieu  : 
Still  flying  from  nature  to  study  her  laws. 
And  dulling  delight  by  exploring  its  cause, 


278  TO  CLOE. 

You  forget  how  superior,  for  mortals  below, 

Is  the  fiction  they  dream  to  the  truth  that  they  know. 

Oh  !  who,  that  has  ever  had  rapture  complete, 

Would  ask  how  we  feel  it,  or  why  it  is  sweet ; 

How  rays  are  confused,  or  how  particles  fly, 

Through  the  medium  refined  of  a  glance  or  a  sigh  ! 

Is  there  one  who  but  once  would  not  rather  have  known  it, 

Than  written,  with  Harvey,  whole  volumes  upon  it  ? 


TO 


When  I  loved  you,  I  can't  but  allow 
I  had  many  an  exquisite  minute  : 

But  the  scorn  that  I  feel  for  you  now 
Hath  even  more  luxury  in  it  ! 

Thus,  whether  we're  on  or  we're  off, 
Some  witchery  seems  to  await  you  ; 

To  love  you  is  pleasant  enough, 
And,  oh  !  'tis  delicious  to  hate  you  1 


TO  CLOE. 

IMITATED    FROM    MARTIAL. 

I  COULD  resign  that  eye  of  blue, 

Howe'er  it  burn,  howe'er  it  thrill  me  ; 

And  though  your  lip  be  rich  with  dew, 
To  lose  it,  Cloe,  scarce  would  kill  me. 

That  snowy  neck  I  ne'er  should  miss. 
However  oft  I've  raved  about  it ; 

And  though  your  heart  can  beat  with  bliss, 
I  think  iny  soul  could  live  without  it. 


A  LEAKY  HEART.  2^9 

In  short,  I've  learn'd  so  well  to  fast, 

That,  sooth  my  love,  I  know  not  whether 

I  might  not  bring  myself  at  last 
To^-do  without  you  altogether  ! 


A  REFLECTION  AT  SEA. 

See  how,  beneath  the  moonbeam's  smile, 
Yon  little  billow  heaves  its  breast, 

And  foams  and  sparkles  for  a  while. 
And  murmuring,  then  subsides  to  rest. 

Thus  man,  the  sport  of  bliss  and  care, 
Rises  on  Time's  eventful  sea  ; 

And,  having  swell'd  a  moment  there, 
Thus  melts  into  eternity. 


ENGLAND. 

WRITTEN    FROM   WASHINGTON,    1804. 

That  land  I  love, 
Where,  like  the  air  that  fans  her  fields  of  green, 
Her  freedom  spreads,  unfever'd  and  serene  ; 
Where  sovereign  man  can  condescend  to  see 
The  throne  and  laws  more  sovereign  still  than  he  ! 


A  LEAKY  HEART. 

My  heart  is  a  sieve  where  some  scatter'd  affections 

Are  just  danced  about  for  a  moment  or  two. 

And  \\iQ  finer  they  are,  the  more  sure  to  run  through. 


28o       ON  A  SQUINTING  POETESS, 

WHAT'S  MY  THOUGHT  LIKE. 

Quest.  Why  is  a  pump  like  V-sc — nt  C-stl-r — gh  ? 

Ans.   Because  it  is  a  slender  thing  of  wood, 
That  up  and  down  its  awkward  arm  doth  sway, 
And  coolly  spout  and  spout  and  spout  away, 

In  one  weak,  washy,  everlasting  flood  ! 


EPIGRAM. 

DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  A  CATHOLIC  DELEGATE    AND  HIS 
ROYAL  HIGHNESS  THE  DUKE  OF  CUMBERLAND.    - 

Said  his  Highness  to  Ned,  with  that  grim  lace  of  his, 
"  Why  refuse  us  the  Veto,  dear  Catholic  Neddy?  " — 

*'  Because,  Sir,"  said  Ned,  looking  full  in  his  phiz, 
"  You'rey<7r^zV(^m^enough,  in  all  conscience,  already  !  " 


EPIGRAM. 

FROM    THE    FRENCH. 

*'I  NEVER  give  a  kiss,"  says  Prue, 
"  To  naughty  man,  for  I  abhor  it." 

She  will  not  give  a  kiss,  'tis  true  ; 

She'll  take  one  though,  and  thank  you  for  it ! 


ON  A  SQUINTING  POETESS. 

To  no  one  Muse  does  she  her  glance  confine, 
But  has  an  eye,  at  once,  io  alt  (he  nine! 


SELECTIONS. 


TO 


"  Moria  pur  quando  vuol,  non  h  bisogna  mutar  ni  faccia  ni  voce 
per  esser  un  Angelo." 

Die  when  you  will,  you  need  not  wear 
At  heaven's  court  a  form  more  fair 

Than  beauty  here  on  earth  has  given  ; 
Keep  but  the  lovely  looks  we  see — 
The  voice  we  hear — and  you  will  be 

An  angel  ready-fnaue  for  heaven  ! 


Selections fi'om  "A  Melo'.ogue  upon  National  Music.''^ 

O  MUSIC  !  thy  celestial  claim 
Is  still  resistless,  still  the  same  ; 
And,  faithful  as  the  mighty  sea 
To  the  pale  star  that  o'er  its  realm  presides, 
The  spell-bound  tides 
Of  human  passion  rise  and  fall  for  thee  ! 


When  Athens  nursed  her  olive  bough, 

With  hands  by  tyrant  power  unchain 'd, 
And  braided  for  the  Muse's  brow 

A  wreath  by  tyrant  touch  unstain'd  : 
^^^len  heroes  trod  each  classic  field 

Where  coward  feet  now  faintly  falter  : 
When  every  arm  was  Freedom's  shield. 

And  every  heart  was  Freedom's  altar. 


See,  from  his  native  hills  afar 
The  rude  Helvetian  flies  to  war ; 
Careless  for  what,  for  whom  he  fights. 
For  slave  or  despot,  wrongs  or  rights  j 


282  SELECTIONS. 

A  conqueror  oft — a  hero  never — 
Yet  lavish  of  his  life-blood  still, 
As  if  'twere  like  his  mountain  rill, 

And  gush'd  for  ever  ! 


O  War,  when  Truth  thy  arm  employs, 
And  Freedom's  spirit  guides  the  labouring  storm, 
'Tis  then  thy  vengeance  takes  a  hallow'd  form, 

And,  like  Heaven's  lightning,  sacredly  destroys. 

Nor  Music,  through  thy  breathing  sphere, 

Lives  there  a  sound  more  grateful  to  the  ear 
Of  Ilim  who  made  all  harmony, 
Than  the  bless'd  sound  of  fetters  breaking, 
And  the  first  hymn  that  man,  awaking 

From  slavery's  slumber,  breathes  to  Liberty. 


SPANISH   AIR — "YA   DESPERTO. 

But  ah  !  if  vain  the  patriot's  zeal, 
If  neither  valour's  force  nor  wisdom's  light 

Can  break  or  melt  that  blood-cemented  seal. 
Which  shuts  so  close  the  book  of  Europe's  right- 
What  song  shall  then  in  sadness  tell 

Of  broken  pride,  of  prospects  shaded, 
Of  buried  hopes  remember'd  well, 

Of  ardour  quench'd,  and  honour  faded  ? 
What  muse  shall  mourn  the  breathless  brave, 

In  sweetest  dirge  at  Memory's  shrine  ? 
What  harp  shall  sigh  o'er  Freedom's  grave? 
O  Erin,  thine  ! 


CoiTuption  an^  3ntoIcrance: 


TWO    rOF.MS 


ADDRESSED  TO  AX  ENGLISHMAN  BY  AN 
IRISHMAN. 


CORRUPTION :  AN  EPISTLE. 


Boast  on,  my  friend — though  stript  of  all  beside, 
Thy  struggling  nation  still  retains  her  pride  : 
That  pride  which  once  in  genuine  glory  woke 
When    Marlborough   fought,    and   brilliant    St.    John 

spoke  ; 
That  pride  which  still,  by  time  and  shame  unstung, 
Outlives   even  Whitelocke's  sword  and  Kawkesb'ry's 

tongue  ! 
Boast  on,  my  friend,  while  in  this  humble  isle 
Where  honour  mourns  and  freedom  fears  to  smile, 
Where  the  bright  light  of  England's  fame  is  known 
But  by  the  baleful  shadow  she  has  thrown 
On  all  our  fate,  where,  doom'd  to  wrongs  and  slights, 
We  hear  you  boast  of  Britain's  glorious  rights, 
As  wretched  slaves  that  under  hatches  lie. 
Here  those  on  deck  extol  the  sun  and  sky  1 
Boast  on,  while  wandering  through  my  native  haunts, 
I  coldly  listen  to  thy  patriot  vaunts  ; 
And  feel,  though  close  our  wedded  countries  twine, 
More  sorrow  for  my  own  than  pride  from  thine. 

Yet  pause  a  moment — and  if  truth  severe 
Can  find  an  inlet  to  that  courtly  ear. 
Which  loves  no  politics  in  rhyme  but  Pye's, 
And  hears  no  news  but  Ward's  gazetted  lies — 
If  aught  can  please  thee  but  the  good  old  saws 
Of  "Church  and  State,"  and   "  W^illiam's  matchless 
laws," 


286  CORRUPTION. 

And  "  Acts  and  rights  of  glorious  Eighty-eight," — 
Things  which,  though  now  a  century  out  of  date, 
Still  serve  to  ballast,  with  convenient  words, 
A  few  crank  arguments  for  speeching  lords  ; 
Turn,  while  I  tell  how  England's  freedom  found, 
Where  most  she  look'd  for  life,  her  deadliest  wound  ; 
How  brave  she  struggled,  while  her  foe  was  seen, 
How  faint  since  influence  lent  that  foe  a  screen  ; 
How  strong  o'er  James  and  Popery  she  prevail'd, 
How  weakly  fell,  when  Whigs  and  gold  assail'd. 

While    kings    were    poor,  and    all    those    schemes 
unknown 
Which  drain  the  people,  but  enrich  the  throne ; 
Ere  yet  a  yielding  Commons  had  supplied 
Those  chains  of  gold  by  which  themselves  are  tied  ; 
Then  proud  Prerogative,  untaught  to  creep 
With  bribery's  silent  foot  on  Freedom's  sleep, 
Frankly  avow'd  his  bold  enslaving  plan, 
And  claim'd  a  right  from  God  to  trample  man  ! 
But  Luther's  light  had  too  much  warn'd  mankind 
For  Hampden's  truth  to  linger  long  behind  ; 
Nor  then,  when  king-like  popes  had  fallen  so  low, 
Could  pope-like  kings  escape  the  levelling  blow. 
That  ponderous  sceptre  (in  whose  place  we  bow 
To  the  light  talisman  of  influence  now), 
Too  gross,  too  visible  to  work  the  spell 
Which  modern  power  performs,  in  fragments  fell  : 
In  fragments  lay,  till,  patch'd  and  painted  o'er 
With  fleur-de-lis,  it  shone  and  scourged  once  more. 

'Twas  then,  my  friend,  thy  kneeling  nation  quaff'd 
Long,  long  and  deep,  the  churchman's  opiate  draught 
Of  tame  obedience — till  her  sense  of  right 
And  pulse  of  glory  seem'd  extinguish'd  quite  ; 


CORRUPTION.  287 

And  Britons  slept  so  sluggish  in  their  chain 

That  wakening  Freedom  call'd  almost  in  vain. 

O  England  !  England  !  what  a  chance  was  thine, 

WTien  the  last  tyrant  of  that  ill-starr'd  line 

Fled  from  his  sullied  crown,  and  left  thee  free 

To  found  thy  own  eternal  liberty  ! 

How  bright,  how  glorious  in  that  sunshine  hour, 

Might  patriot  hands  have  raised  the  triple  tower 

Of  British  freedom,  on  a  rock  divine 

Which  neither  force  could  storm  nor  treachery  mine  ! 

But,  no — the  luminous,  the  lofty,  plan. 

Like  mighty  Babel,  seem'd  too  bold  for  man  : 

The  curse  of  jarring  tongues  again  was  given 

To  thwart  a  work  which  raised  men  near  to  heaven. 

While  Tories  marr'd  what  Whigs  had  scarce  begun, 

While  "VSTiigs  undid  what  Whigs  themselves  had  done, 

The  time  was  lost,  and  William,  with  a  smile, 

Saw  Freedom  weeping  o'er  the  unfinish'd  pile  ! 


Hence  all  the  ills  you  suffer, — hence  remain 
Such  galling  fragments  of  that  feudal  chain 
Whose  links,  around  you  by  the  Norman  flung, 
Though  loosed  and  broke  so  often,  still  have  clung. 
Hence  sly  Prerogative,  like  Jove  of  old, 
Has  turn'd  his  thunder  into  showers  of  gold, 
Whose  silent  courtship  wins  securer  joys, 
Taints  by  degrees,  and  ruins  without  noise. 
While  parliaments,  no  more  those  sacred  things 
Which  make  and  rule  the  destiny  of  kings, 
Like  loaded  dice  by  Ministers  are  thrown, 
And  each  new  set  of  sharpers  cog  their  own. 
Hence  the  rich  oil,  that  from  the  treasury  steals 
And  drips  o'er  all  the  Constitution's  wheels. 
Giving  the  old  machine  such  pliant  play. 
That  Court  and  Commons  jog  one  joltless  way. 


288  CORRUPTION. 

While  Wisdom  trembles  for  the  crazy  car, 

So  gilt,  so  rotten,  carrying  fools  so  far  ; 

And  the  duped  people,  hourly  doom'd  to  pay 

The  sums  that  bribe  their  liberties  away — 

Like  a  young  eagle,  who  has  lent  his  plume 

To  fledge  the  shaft  by  which  he  meets  his  doom, 

See  their  own  feathers  pluck'd  to  wing  the  dart, 

Which  rank  corruption  destines  for  their  heart  ! 

But  soft !  my  friend,  I  hear  thee  proudly  say, 

"  What !  shall  I  listen  to  the  impious  lay, 

That  dares,  with  Tory  licence,  to  profane 

The  bright  bequest  of  William's  glorious  reign  ? 

Shall  the  great  wisdom  of  our  patriot  sires. 

Whom  Hawkesbury  quotes  and  savoury  B-rch  admires, 

Be  slander'd  thus  ?     Shall  honest  St — le  agree 

With  virtuous  R-se  to  call  us  pure  and  free, 

Yet  fail  to  prove  it  ?     Shall  our  patent  pair 

Of  wise  state -poets  waste  their  words  in  air, 

And  Pye  unheeded  breathe  his  prosperous  strain, 

And  Canning  take  the  people  s  sense  in  vain  ?  " 


The  people  ! — ah,  that  Freedom's  form  should  stay 
Where  Freedom's  spirit  long  hath  pass'd  away  ! 
That  a  false  smile  sh  uld  play  around  the  dead, 
And  flush  the  features  when  the  soul  has  fled  ! 
When  Rome  had  lost  her  virtue  with  her  rights, 
When  her  foul  tyrant  sat  on  Capreae's  heights 
Amid  his  ruftian  spies,  and  doomed  to  death 
Each  noble  name  they  blasted  with  their  breath, — 
Even  then — (in  mockery  of  that  golden  time, 
When  the  Republic  rose  revered,  sublime. 
And  her  free  sons,  diffused  from  zone  to  zone, 
Gave  kings  to  every  country  but  their  own) — 
Even  then  the  senate  and  the  tribunes  stood, 
Insulting  marks,  to  shew  how  Freedom's  flood 


CORRUPTION.  289 

Had  dared  to  flow  in  glory's  radiant  day, 
And  how  it  ebb'd, — for  ever  ebb'd  away  ! 

Oh,  look  around — though  yet  a  tyrant's  sword 
Nor  haunts  your  sleep,  nor  glitters  o'er  your  board, 
Though  blood  be  better  drawn  by  modern  quacks, 
With  treasury  leeches  than  with  sword  or  axe  ; 
Yet  say,  could  even  a  prostrate  tribune's  power 
Or  a  mock  senate,  in  Rome's  servile  hour. 
Insult  so  much  the  rights,  the  claims  of  man. 
As  doth  that  fetter'd  mob,  that  free  divan. 
Of  noble  tools  and  honourable  knaves. 
Of  pension'd  patriots  and  privileged  slaves  ; — 
That  party-colour'd  mass,  which  nought  can  warm 
But  quick  Corruption's  heat — whose  ready  swarm 
Spread  their  light  wings  in  Bribery's  golden  sky, 
Buzz  for  a  period,  lay  their  eggs,  and  die ; — 
That  greedy  vampire,  which  from  Freedom's  tomb 
Comes  forth,  with  all  the  mimicry  of  bloom 
Upon  its  lifeless  cheeks,  and  sucks  and  drains 
A  people's  blood  to  feed  its  putrid  veins  ! 

Oh,  what  a  picture  ! — yes,  my  friend,  'tis  dark — 
"But  can  no  light  be  found — no  genuine  spark 
Of  former  fire  to  warm  us  ?     Is  there  none. 
To  act  a  Marvell's  part?  " — I  fear  not  one. 
To  place  and  power  all  public  spirit  tends, 
In  place  and  power  all  public  spirit  ends  ; 
Like  hardy  plants,  that  love  the  air  and  sky, 
"When  out,  'twill  thrive — but  taken  in,  'twill  die  1 

Not  bolder  truths  of  sacred  Freedom  hung 
From  Sidney's  pen,  or  burn'd  on  Fox's  tongue, 
Than  upstart  Whigs  produce  each  market  night, 
While  yet  their  conscience,  as  their  purse,  is  light ; 

.-^68 


290  CORRUPTION. 

While  debts  at  home  excite  their  care  for  those 
Which,  dire  to  tell,  their  much-loved  coimtry  owes, 
And  loud  and  upright,  till  their  price  be  known, 
They  thwart  the  King's  supplies  to  raise  their  own. 
But  bees,  on  flowers  alighting,  cease  their  hum — 
So  settling  upon  places,  ^\^ligs  grow  dumb. 
And  though  I  feel  as  if  indignant  Heaven 
Must  thinlc  that  wretch  too  foul  to  be  iorgiven, 
Who  basely  hangs  the  bright  protecting  shade 
Of  Freedom's  ensign  o'er  Corruption's  trade, 
And  makes  the  sacred  flag  he  dares  to  show 
His  passport  to  the  market  of  her  foe, 
Yet,  yet  I  own,  so  venerably  dear 
Are  Freedom's  grave  old  anthems  to  my  ear, 
That  I  enjoy  them,  though  by  rascals  sung, 
And  reverence  Scripture  even  from  Satan's  tongue. 
Nay,  when  the  constitution  has  expired, 
I'll  have  such  men,  like  Irish  wakers,  hired 
To  sing  old  "  Habeas  Corpus  "  by  its  side. 
And  ask,  in  purchased  ditties,  why  it  died  ? 


See  that  smooth  lord,  whom  nature's  plastic  pains 
Seem  to  have  destined  for  those  Eastern  reigns 
\Vlien  eunuchs  flourish'd,  and  when  nerveless  things 
That  men  rejected  were  the  chosen  of  kings  ; — 
Even  he^  forsooth  (oh,  mockery  accurst  !), 
Dared  to  assume  the  patriot's  name  at  first — 
Thus  Pitt  began,  and  thus  begin  his  apes  : 
Thus  devils,  \s\\q.x\  first  raised,  take  pleasing  shapes. 
But,  O  poor  Ireland  !  if  revenge  be  sweet 
For  centuries  of  wrong,  for  dark  deceit 
And  with'ring  insult — for  the  Union  thrown 
Into  thy  bitter  cup,  when  that  alone 
Of  slavery's  draught  was  wanting — if  for  this 
Revenge  be  sweet,  thou  hast  that  demon's  bliss  : 


INTOLERANCE.  291 

For  oh,  'tis  more  than  hell's  revenge  to  see 

That  England  trusts  the  men  who've  ruin'd  thee  ;  — 

That,  in  these  awful  days,  when  every  hour 

Creates  some  new  or  blasts  some  ancient  power, 

A\Tien  proud  Napoleon,  like  the  burning  shield 

AVhose  light  compell'd  each  wond'ring  foe  to  yield, 

With  baleful  lustre  blinds  the  brave  and  free, 

And  dazzles  Europe  into  slaver}^ — 

That,  in  this  hour,  when  patriot  zeal  should  guide. 

When  mind  should  rule,  and — Fox  should  not  have 

died, 
All  that  devoted  England  can  oppose 
To  enemies  made  fiends  and  friends  made  foes, 
Is  the  rank  refuse,  the  despised  remains 
Of  that  unpitying  power,  whose  whips  and  chains 
Made  Ireland  first,  in  wild  and  wicked  trance, 
Turn  false  to  England — give  her  hand  to  France. 
Those  hack'd  and  tainted  tools,  so  foully  fit 
For  the  grand  artisan  of  mischief,  P-tt, 
So  useless  ever  but  in  vile  em.ploy, 
So  weak  to  save,  so  vigorous  to  destroy — 
Such  are  the  men  that  guard  thy  threaten'd  shore, 
O  England  !  sinking  England  !  boast  no  more  ! 


INTOLERANCE  :  A  SA  TIRE. 


Start  not,  my  friend,  nor  think  the  Muse  will  stain 
Her  classic  fingers  with  the  dust  profane 
Of  bulls,  decrees,  and  fulminating  scrolls, 
That  took  such  freedom  once  with  royal  souls, 


292  INTOLERANCE. 

When  heaven  was  yet  the  Pope's  exclusive  trade, 

And  kings  were  damn'd  as  fast  as  now  they're  made. 

No,  no — let  Duigenan  search  the  papal  chair 

For  fragrant  treasures  long  forgotten  there  ; 

And  as  the  witch  of  sunless  Lapland  thinks 

That  little  swarthy  gnomes  delight  in  stinks, 

Let  sallow  Perceval  snufif  up  the  gale 

\'Vhich  Wizard  Duigenan's  gather'd  sweets  exhale  ; 

Enough  for  me,  whose  heart  has  learn'd  to  scorn 

Bigots  alike  in  Rome  or  England  born. 

Who  loathe  the  venom  whencesoe'er  it  springs. 

From  popes  or  la\vyers,  pastry-cooks  or  kings, — 

Enough  for  me  to  laugh  and  weep  by  turns, 

As  mirth  provokes,  or  indignation  burns, 

As  Canning  vapours,  or  as  France  succeeds, 

As  Hawkesb'ry  proses,  or  as  Ireland  bleeds  ! 


And  thou,  my  friend,  if,  in  these  headlong  days, 
When  bigot  zeal  her  drunken  antics  plays 
So  near  a  precipice,  that  men  the  while 
Look  breathless  on  and  shudder  while  they  smile — 
If,  in  such  fearful  days,  thou'lt  dare  to  look 
To  hapless  Ireland,  to  this  rankling  nook 
Which   Heaven  hath  freed  from  poisonous  things  in 

vain, 
While  Gilford's  tongue  and  IMusgrave's  pen  remain — 
If  thou  hast  yet  no  golden  blinkers  got 
To  shade  thine  eyes  from  this  devoted  spot. 
Whose  wrongs,  though  blazon'd  o'er  the  world  they 

be, 
Placemen  alone  are  privileged  not  to  see — 
Oh  !  turn  a  while,  and,  though  the  shamrock  wreathes 
My  homely  harp,  yet  shall  the  song  it  breathes 
Of  Ireland's  slavery  and  of  Ireland's  woes, 
Live,  when  the  memory  of  her  tyrant  foes 


INTOLERANCE.  293 

Shall  but  exist  all  future  knaves  to  warn, 
Embalm'd  in  hate  and  canonised  by  scorn, 
WTien  Castlereagh,  in  sleep  still  more  profound 
Than  his  own  opiate  tongue  now  deals  around, 
Shall  wait  th'  impeachment  of  that  awful  day, 
Which  even  his  practised  hand  can't  bribe  away. 


And,  O  my  friend,  wert  thou  but  near  me  now 
To  see  the  spring  diffuse  o'er  Erin's  brow 
Smiles  that  shine  out,  unconquerably  fair. 
Even  through  the  blood-marks  left  by  Camden  there, 
Couldst  thou  but  see  what  verdure  paints  the  sod 
WTiich  none  but  tyrants  and  their  slaves  have  trod, 
And  didst  thou  know  the  spirit,  kind  and  brave, 
That  warms  the  soul  of  each  insulted  slave, 
^^^lO,  tired  with  struggling,  sinks  beneath  his  lot, 
And  seems  by  all  but  watchful  France  forgot — 
Thy  heart  would  burn — yes,  even  thy  Pittite  heart 
Would  burn,  to  think  that  such  a  blooming  part 
Of  the  world's  garden,  rich  in  nature's  charms. 
And  fill'd  with  social  souls  and  vigorous  arms, 
Should  be  the  victim  of  that  canting  crew, 
So  smooth,  so  godly — yet  so  devilish  too  ; 
Who,  arm'd  at  once  with  prayer-books  and  with  whips, 
Blood  on  their  hands,  and  Scripture  on  their  lips, 
Tyrants  by  creed,  and  torturers  by  text. 
Make  this  life  hell,  in  honour  of  the  next  I 
Your  Redesdales,  Percevals — O  gracious  Heaven, 
If  I'm  presumptuous,  be  my  tongue  forgiven, 
WTien  here  I  swear,  by  my  soul's  hope  of  rest, 
I'd  rather  have  been  born,  ere  man  was  blest 
With  the  pure  dawn  of  Revelation's  light, 
Yes, — rather  plunge  me  back  in  Pagan  night, 
And  take  ray  chance  with  Socrates  for  bliss, 
Than  be  the  Christian  of  a  faith  like  this, 


294  INTOLERANCE. 

Which  builds  on  heavenly  cant  its  earthly  sway, 

And  in  a  convert  mourns  to  lose  a  prey ; 

Which  binding  polity  in  spiritual  chains, 

And  tainting  piety  with  temporal  stains, 

Corrupts  both  state  and  church,  and  makes  an  oath 

The  knave  and  atheist's  passport  into  both  ; 

Which,  while  it  dooms  dissenting  souls  to  know 

Nor  bliss  above  nor  liberty  below, 

Adds  the  slave's  suffering  to  the  sinner's  fear, 

And,  lest  he  'scape  hereafter,  racks  him  here  ! 

But  no — far  other  faith,  far  milder  beams 

Of  heavenly  justice  warm  the  Christian's  dreams  ; 

His  creed  is  writ  on  Mercy's  page  above 

By  the  pure  hands  of  all-atoning  Love  : 

He  weeps  to  see  his  soul's  religion  twine 

The  tyrant's  sceptre  with  her  wreath  divine ; 

And  he,  while  round  him  sects  and  nations  raise 

To  the  one  God  their  varying  notes  of  praise, 

Blesses  each  voice,  whate'er  its  tone  may  be. 

That  serves  to  swell  the  general  harmony. 

Such  was  the  spirit,  gently,  grandly  bright, 
That  fill'd,  O  Fox  !  thy  peaceful  soul  with  light ; 
While,  blandly  speeding,  like  that  orb  of  air 
Which  folds  our  planet  in  its  circling  care, 
The  mighty  sphere  of  thy  transparent  mind 
Embraced  the  world,  and  breathed  for  all  mankind. 
Last  of  the  great,  farewell  ! — yet  7iot  the  last — 
Though  Britain's  sunshine  hour  with  thee  be  past, 
lerne  still  one  gleam  of  glory  gives, 
And  feels  but  half  thy  loss  while  Grattan  lives. 


^be  ®&e6  of  Hiiacreon: 

A  SELECTION. 


THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON . 

A   SELECTION. 


I  CARE  not  for  the  idle  state 

Of  Persia's  king,  the  rich,  the  great ! 

I  envy  not  the  monarch's  throne, 

Nor  wish  the  treasured  gold  my  own. 

But  oh  !  be  mine  the  rosy  braid, 

The  fervour  of  my  brows  to  shade  ; 

Be  mine  the  odours,  richly  sighing, 

Amidst  my  hoary  tresses  flying. 

To-day  I'll  haste  to  quaff  my  wine, 

As  if  to-morrow  ne'er  would  shine  ; 

But  if  to-morrow  comes,  why  then — 

I'll  haste  to  quaff  my  wine  again. 

And  thus  while  all  our  days  are  bright, 

Nor  time  has  dimmed  their  bloomy  light, 

Let  us  the  festal  hours  beguile 

With  mantling  cup  and  cordial  smile  ; 

And  shed  from  every  bowl  of  wine 

The  richest  drop  on  Bacchus'  shrine  ! 

For  Death  may  come,  with  brow  unpleasant, 

May  come  when  least  we  wish  him  present, 

And  beckon  to  the  sable  shore, 

And  grimly  bid  us — drink  no  more  ! 

One  day  the  Muses  twined  the  hands 
Of  baby  Love  with  flowery  bands, 
And  to  celestial  Beauty  gave 
The  captive  infant  as  her  slave. 


298         THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON. 

His  mother  comes  with  many  a  toy, 
To  ransom  her  beloved  boy  ; 
His  mother  sues,  but  all  in  vain. 
He  ne'er  will  leave  his  chains  again. 
Nay,  should  they  take  his  chains  away, 
The  little  captive  still  would  stay  ; 
"  If  this,"  he  cries,  "  a  bondage  be, 
Who  could  wish  for  liberty  ?  " 


Observe  when  mother  earth  is  dry, 
She  drinks  the  droppings  of  the  sky ; 
And  then  the  dewy  cordial  gives 
To  every  thirsty  plant  that  lives. 
The  vapours  which  at  evening  weep 
Are  beverage  to  the  swelling  deep  ; 
And  when  the  rosy  sun  appears, 
He  drinks  the  ocean's  misty  tears. 
The  moon,  too,  quaffs  her  paly  stream 
Of  lustre  from  the  solar  beam. 
Then,  hence  with  all  your  sober  thinking  I 
Since  nature's  holy  law  is  drinking, 
I'll  make  the  laws  of  nature  mine. 
And  pledge  the  universe  in  wine  ! 


To  all  that  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 
Some  boon  of  strength  has  nature  given. 
When  the  majestic  bull  was  born, 
She  fenced  his  brow  with  wreathed  horn  ; 
She  arm'd  the  courser's  foot  of  air. 
And  wing'd  with  speed  the  panting  hare. 
She  gave  the  lion  fangs  of  terror, 
And,  on  the  ocean's  crystal  mirror, 


THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON,  299 

Taught  the  unnumber'd  scaly  throng 
To  trace  their  liquid  path  along  ; 
While  for  the  umbrage  of  the  grove, 
She  plumed  the  warbling  world  of  love. 
To  man  she  gave  the  flame  refined, 
The  spark  of  heaven — a  thinking  mind  I 
And  had  she  no  surpassing  treasure 
For  thee,  O  woman  I  child  of  pleasure  ? 
She  gave  thee  beauty — shaft  of  eyes, 
That  every  shaft  of  war  outflies  ! 
She  gave  thee  beauty — blush  of  fire, 
That  bids  the  flames  of  war  retire  ! 
Woman  !  be  fair,  we  must  adore  thet  I 
Smile,  and  a  world  is  weak  before  thee  I 


Yes — loving  is  a  painful  thrill. 
And  not  to  love  more  painful  still  ; 
But  surely  'tis  the  worst  of  pain 
To  love  and  not  be  loved  again  ! 
Affection  now  has  fled  from  earth, 
Nor  fire  of  genius,  light  of  birth, 
Nor  heavenly  virtue,  can  beguile 
From  beauty's  cheek  one  favouring  smile. 
Gold  is  the  woman's  only  theme, 
Gold  is  the  woman's  only  dream, 
Oh  !  never  be  that  wretch  forgiven — 
Forgive  him  not,  indignant  Heaven  ! 
"Whose  grovelling  eyes  could  first  adore, 
Whose  heart  could  pant  for  sordid  ore. 
Since  that  devoted  thirst  began 
Man  has  forgot  to  feel  for  man  ; 
The  pulse  of  social  life  is  dead, 
And  all  its  fonder  feelings  fled  I 


300        THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON. 

War  too  has  sullied  nature's  charms, 
For  gold  provokes  the  world  to  arms ! 
And  oh  !  the  worst  of  all  is  art, 
I  feel  it  breaks  the  lover's  heart  ! 


If  hoarded  gold  possess'd  a  power 

To  lengthen  life's  too-fleeting  hour, 

And  purchase  from  the  hand  of  death 

A  little  span,  a  moment's  breath, 

How  I  would  love  the  precious  ore  ! 

And  every  day  should  swell  my  store  ; 

That  when  the  Fates  would  send  their  minion, 

To  waft  me  off  on  shadowy  pinion, 

I  might  some  hours  of  life  obtain. 

And  drive  him  back  to  hell  again. 

But  since  we  ne'er  can  charm  away 

The  mandate  of  that  awful  day, 

Why  do  we  vainly  weep  at  fate, 

And  sigh  for  life's  uncertain  date  ? 

The  light  of  gold  can  ne'er  illume 

The  dreary  midnight  of  the  tomb  ! 

And  why  should  I  then  pant  for  treasures  ? 

Mine  be  the  brilliant  round  of  pleasures ; 

The  goblet  rich,  the  board  of  friends, 

Whose  flowing  souls  the  goblet  blends  ! 


Yes,  be  the  glorious  revel  mine, 
Where  humour  sparkles  from  the  wine  ! 
Around  me,  let  the  youthful  choir 
Respond  to  my  beguiling  lyre ; 
And  while  the  red  cup  circles  round. 
Mingle  in  soul  as  well  as  sound  ! 


My  soul,  to  festive  feeling  true, 
One  pang  of  envy  never  knew  ; 
And  little  has  it  learn'd  to  dread 
The  gall  that  envy's  tongue  can  shed. 
Away  !  I  hate  the  slanderous  dart 
WTiich  steals  to  wound  th'  unwar)-  heart  ; 
And  oh  !  I  hate  with  all  my  soul 
Discordant  clamours  o'er  the  bowl, 
^\^lere  every  cordial  heart  should  be 
Attuned  to  peace  and  harmony. 
Come,  let  us  hear  the  soul  of  song 
Expire  the  silver  heart  along ; 
Thus  simply  happy,  thus  at  peace, 
Sure  such  a  life  should  never  cease  ! 


Within  this  goblet  rich  and  deep 

I  cradle  all  my  woes  to  sleep  ; 

Why  should  we  breathe  the  sigh  of  fear, 

Or  pour  the  unavailing  tear  ? 

For  death  will  never  heed  the  sigh. 

Nor  soften  at  the  tearful  eye  ; 

And  eyes  that  sparkle,  eyes  that  weep, 

Must  all  alike  be  seal'd  in  sleep  ; 

Then  let  us  never  vainly  stray, 

In  search  of  thorns,  from  pleasure's  way  ; 

Oh  !  let  us  quaff  the  rosy  wave 

Which  Bacchus  loves,  which  Bacchus  gave 

And  in  the  goblet  rich  and  deep 

Cradle  our  crying  woes  to  sleep  ! 


'Tis  true,  my  fading  years  decline, 

Yet  I  can  quaff  the  brimming  wine 

As  deep  as  any  stripling  fair, 

WTiose  cheeks  the  flush  of  morning  wear  ; 


302         THE  ODES  OF  A  NACRE  ON. 

And  if,  amidst  the  merry  crew, 
I'm  call'd  to  wind  the  dance's  clue, 
Thou  shalt  behold  this  vigorous  hand, 
Not  faltering  on  the  Bacchant's  wand, 
But  brandishing  a  rosy  flask, 
The  only  thyrsus  e'er  I'll  ask  ! 
Let  those  who  pant  for  Glory's  charms, 
Embrace  her  in  the  field  of  arms  ; 
While  my  inglorious,  placid  soul 
Breathes  not  a  wish  beyond  the  bowl. 
Then  fill  it  high,  my  ruddy  slave, 
And  bathe  me  in  its  honey'd  wave  ! 
For  though  my  fading  years  decay, 
And  though  my  bloom  has  pass'd  away, 
Like  old  Silenus,  sire  divine, 
With  blushes  borrow'd  from  my  wine, 
I'll  mingle  'mid  the  dancing  train, 
And  live  my  follies  o'er  again. 


When  my  thirsty  soul  I  steep, 
Every  sorrow's  lull'd  to  sleep. 
Talk  of  monarchs  !  I  am  then 
Richest,  happiest,  first  of  men  ; 
Careless  o'er  my  cup  I  sing. 
Fancy  makes  me  more  than  king ; 
Gives  me  wealthy  Croesus'  store. 
Can  I,  can  I  wish  for  more  ? 
On  my  velvet  couch  reclining, 
Ivy  leaves  my  brow  entwining, 
W^hile  my  soul  dilates  with  glee. 
What  are  kings  and  crowns.to  me  ? 
If  before  my  feet  they  lay, 
I  would  spurn  them  all  away  ! 
Arm  you,  arm  you,  men  of  might, 
Hasten  to  the  sanguine  fight ; 


THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON.         303 

Let  me,  O  my  budding  vine, 
Spill  no  other  blood  than  thine. 
Yonder  brimming  goblet  see, 
That  alone  shall  vanquish  me. 
Oh  !  I  think  it  sweeter  far 
To  fall  in  banquet  than  in  war  ! 


Away,  away,  you  men  of  rules, 

What  have  I  to  do  with  schools? 

They'd  make  me  learn,  they'd  make  me  think, 

But  would  they  make  me  love  and  drink  ? 

Teach  me  this  ;  and  let  me  swim 

My  soul  upon  the  goblet's  brim  ; 

Age  begins  to  blanch  my  brow, 

I've  time  for  nought  but  pleasure  now. 

Fly  and  cool  my  goblet's  glow 

At  yonder  fountain's  gelid  flow  ; 

I'll  quaff,  my  boy,  and  calmly  sink 

This  soul  to  slumber  as  I  drink  ! 

Soon,  too  soon,  my  jocund  slave. 

You'll  deck  your  master's  grassy  grave  ; 

And  there's  an  end — for  ah  !  you  know 

They  drink  but  little  wine  below  ! 


And  whose  immortal  hand  could  shed 
Upon  this  disk  the  ocean's  bed  ? 
And  in  a  frenzied  flight  of  soul 
Sublime  as  heaven's  eternal  pole, 
Imagine  thus,  in  semblance  warm, 
The  Queen  of  Love's  voluptuous  form 
Floating  along  the  silver}'  sea 
In  beauty's  glorious  majesty  ! 
Light  a.s  the  leaf  that  summer's  breeze 


304         THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON. 

Has  wafted  o'er  the  glassy  seas, 
She  floats  upon  the  ocean's  breast, 
Which  undulates  in  sleepy  test, 
And  stealing  on,  she  gently  pillows 
Her  bosom  on  the  dancing  billows. 
Her  bosom,  like  the  humid  rose, 
Her  deck  like  de\\'y-sparkling  snows, 
Illumine  the  liquid  path  she  traces, 
And  burn  within  the  stream's  embraces  ! 
In  languid  luxury  soft  she  glides, 
Encircled  by  the  azure  tides. 
Like  some  fair  lily  faint  with  weeping, 
Upon  a  bed  of  violets  sleeping  ! 
Beneath  their  queen's  inspiring  glance 
The  dolphins  o'er  the  green  sea  dance, 
Wliile,  sparkling  on  the  silver  waves. 
The  tenants  of  the  briny  caves 
Around  the  pomp  in  eddies  play, 
And  gleam  along  the  watery  way. 


Golden  hues  of  youth  are  fled  ; 
Hoary  locks  deform  my  head. 
Bloomy  graces,  dalliance  gay, 
All  the  flowers  of  life  decay, 
Withering  age  begins  to  trace 
Sad  memorials  o'er  my  face  ; 
Time  has  shed  its  sweetest  bloom, 
All  the  future  must  be  gloom  ! 
This  awakes  my  hourly  sighing  ; 
Dreary  is  the  thought  of  dying  ! 
Pluto's  is  a  dark  abode. 
Sad  the  journey,  sad  the  road  ; 
And,  the  gloomy  travel  o'er, 
Ah  !  we  can  return  no  more  ! 


THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON.        305 

Fill  me,  boy,  as  deep  a  draught 

As  e'er  was  fill'd,  as  e'er  was  quaff'd  ; 

But  let  the  water  amply  flow 

To  cool  the  grape's  intemperate  glow  ; 

For,  though  the  bowl's  the  grave  of  sadness, 

Oh  !  be  it  ne'er  the  birth  of  madness  ! 

No,  banish  from  our  board  to-night 

The  revelries  of  rude  delight  ! 

To  Scythians  leave  these  wild  excesses. 

Ours  be  the  joy  that  soothes  and  blesses  ! 

And  while  the  temperate  bowl  we  wreathe. 

Our  choral  hymns  shall  sweetly  breathe, 

Beguiling  every  hour  along 

With  harmony  of  soul  and  song  ! 


Rich  in  bliss,  I  proudly  scorn, 
The  stream  of  Amalthea's  horn  ! 
Nor  should  I  ask  to  call  the  throne 
Of  the  Tartessian  prince  my  own  ; 
To  totter  through  his  train  of  years. 
The  victim  of  declining  fears. 
One  little  hour  of  joy  to  me 
Is  worth  a  dull  eternity  ! 


Cupid,  whose  lamp  has  lent  the  ray 
Which  lightens  our  meandering  way, 
Cupid  within  my  bosom  stealing, 
Excites  a  strange  and  mingled  feeling, 
W' hich  pleases,  though  severely  teasing, 
And  teases,  though  divinely  pleasing  ! 

369 


3o6         THE  ODES  OF  ANACREON, 

Let  me  resign  a  wretched  breath, 
Since  now  remains  to  me 

No  other  balm  than  kindly  death 
To  soothe  my  misery  ! 


I  KNOW  thou  lovest  a  brimming  measure, 
And  art  a  kindly,  cordial  host  ; 

But  let  me  fill  and  drink  at  pleasure, 
Thus  I  enjoy  the  goblet  most. 


I  FEAR  that  love  disturbs  my  rest, 
Yet  feel  not  love's  impassion'd  care  ; 

I  think  there's  madness  in  my  breast, 
Yet  cannot  find  that  madness  there. 


From  dread  Leucadia's  frowning  steep, 
I'll  plunge  into  the  whitening  deep  ; 
And  there  I'll  float  to  waves  resign'd. 
For  love  intoxicates  my  mind  ! 


Mix  me,  child,  a  cup  divine, 
Crystal  water,  ruby  wine  ; 
Weave  the  frontlet,  richly  flushing, 
O'er  my  wintry  temples  blushing. 
Mix  the  brimmer — Love  and  I 
Shall  no  more  the  gauntlet  try. 
Here — upon  this  holy  bowl, 
I  surrender  all  my  soul ! 


P-rinted  by  Walter  Scott,  FeUing,  NewcaHU-<m-Tyne. 


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Edited  by  Ernest  Rhys. 

In  SHILLING  Mojiihly    Volumes,   Crown  8vo, 

VOLUMES  ALREADY  ISSUED. 

ROMANCE  OF  KING  ARTHUR.     Edited  by  E.  Rhys. 

WALDEN.    By  H.  THOREAU.        EcUted  by  W.  H.  DmcKS. 

CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 

By  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY.  Edited  by  W.  Sharp. 

LANDOR'S  CONVERSATIONS.         Edited  by  H.  Ellis. 

PLUTARCH'S  LIVES.    With  Introduction  by  B.  J.  Snell. 

SIR  T.  BROWNE'S  RELIGIO  MEDICL  Etc. 

With  Introduction  by  John  Addington  Svmonds. 

ESSAYS    AND    LETTERS    OF    PERCY     BYSSHE 

SHELLEY.  With  Introduction  by  Ernest  Rhys. 

PROSE  WRITINGS  OF  SWIFT.  Edited  by  W.  Lewin. 

MY  STUDY  WINDOWS.    By  JAMES  R.  LOWELL 

With  Introduction  by  Richard  Garnett,  LL.D. 
GREAT  ENGLISH  PAINTERS.    By  CUNNINGHAM. 
With  Introduction  by  William  Sharp- 
LORD  BYRON'S  LETTERS.  Edited  by  M.  Blind. 

ESSAYS  BY  LESGH  HUNT.  Edited  by  A.  Syakins. 

LONGFELLOW'S  PROSE.  Edited  by  W.  Tirebuck. 

GREAT  MUSICAL  COMPOSERS.  Edited  by  Mrs.  Sharp. 
MARCUS   AURELIUS.  Edited  by  Alice  Zimmern. 

SPECIMEN  DAYS  IN  AMERICA.   By  Walt  Whitman. 
WHITE'S  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  SELBORNE. 

Edited,  witb  Introduction,  by  Richard  Jefferies. 
CAPTAIN  SINGLETON.  Edited  by  H.  H.  Sparling. 
ESSAYS :  Literary  and  Political.  By  Joseph  Mazzini. 
With  Introduction  by  William  Clarke. 
THE  PROSE  WRITINGS  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 
With  Introduction  by  Havelock  Ellis. 
SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS'  DISCOURSES. 

With  Introduction  by  Helen  Zuimern. 
THE    LOVER,    and   other   Papers    of    Steele   and 
Addison.     Edited,  with  Introduction,  by  Walter  Lewin. 
ROBERT   BURNS'S    LETTERS. 

Edited,  with  Introduction,  by  J.  LOGIE  Robertson,  M.A. 
VOLSUNGA  SAGA.    Edited  by  H.  H.  Sparling. 
SARTOR  RESARTUS.    By  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

Edited,  with  Introduction,  by  Ernest  Rhys. 
The  Series  is  issued  in  two  styles  of  Binding— Red  Cloth,  Cut 
Edges ;  and  Dark  Blue  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges.    Either  Style,  Is. 

Loudon :  Walter  Scott,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster  Row. 


MONTHL  V  SHILLING  VOL  UMES. 

CLOTH,  CUT  OR  UNCUT  EDGES. 

GREAT      WRITERS 

a  IRcw  Series  of  Critical  :J6ioc}rapbie5. 

Edited  by  Professor  E.  S.  Robertson. 


ALREADY  ISSUED— 
LIFE     OP     LONGFELLOW.      By   Professor    Eric    S. 

Robertson. 
LIFE  OF  COLERIDGE.    By  Hall  Caine. 
LIFE  OF  DICKENS.    By  Fr.o,k  T.  Marzials. 

LIFE  OF  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI,    By  Joseph 

Knight. 
LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.    By  Col.  F.  Grant. 
LIFE  OF  DARWIN.    By  G.  T.  Bettany. 
CHARLOTTE  BRONTE.    By  Augustine  Birrell. 
LIFE      OF     THOMAS      CARLYLE.       By     Richard 

Garnett,  LL.D. 
LIFE  OF  ADAlrl  SMITH.    By  R.  B.  Haldane,  M.P. 
LIFE  OF  KEATS.     By  W.  M.  Rossetti. 
LIFE  OF   SHELLEY.     By  William  Sharp. 
LIFE  OP  SMOLLETT.    By  David  Hannay. 
LIFE  OP  GOLDSMITH.    By  Austin  Dobson. 
LIFE  OP  SCOTT.     By  Professor  Yonge. 

Ready  February  -loth. 
LIFE  OF  BURNS.    By  Professor  Blackie. 

To  be  followed  on  March  2Uh  by 
LIFE  OF  BUN Y AN.    By  Canon  Yenables. 

A  complete  Bibliogi-aphy  to  each  volume,  compiled  by 
J.  P.  Anderson  of  the  British  Museum. 


Yolumes  in  preparation  by  James  Sime,  Edmund  Gosse,  etc. 

LIBRARY  EDITION  OF  "GREAT  WRITERS." 

An  Issue  of  all  the  Yolumes  in  this  Series  will  be  published, 
printed  on  large  paper  of  extra  quality,  in  handsome  binding, 
Demy  Svo,  price  23.  6d.  per  volume. 

London :  Walter  Scott,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster  Row. 


FEBRUARY,   1888. 
VOLS.  I.  TO  IV.  NOW  READY. 


RE-ISSUE  IN  MONTHLY  VOLUMES,  ONE  SHILLING  EACH, 

STRONGLY   BOUND    IN    CLOTH, 

Uniform  in  size  and  style  with  the  Camelot  Series^ 

^VILSON'S 

TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS 

AND    OF    SCOTLAND  : 

HISTORICAL,  TRADITIONARY,  AND  IMAGINATIVE. 
Revised  by  ALEXANDER  LEIGHTON. 


No  collection  of  talcs  published  in  a  serial  form  ever  enjoyed 
so  great  a  popularity  as  "  The  Tales  of  the  Borders  ; "  and 
the  secret  of  their  success  lies  in  the  fact  that  they  are  stories 
in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  illustrating  in  a  graphic  and 
natural  style  the  manners  and  customs,  trials  and  scirrows, 
sins  and  backslidings,  of  the  men  and  women  of  whom  they 
treat.  The  heroes  and  heroines  of  these  admirable  stories 
belong  to  every  rank  of  life,  from  the  king  and  noble  to  the 
humble  peasant. 


The  Scotsman  says  : — "  Those  who  have  read  the  tales  in  the 
unwieldy  tomes  in  which  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  libraries 
will  welcome  the  publication  of  this  neat,  handy,  and  well- 
printed  edition." 

The  Dundee  Advertiser  says: — "Considering  how  attractive 
are  these  talcs,  whether  regarded  as  illustrating  Scottish  life, 
or  as  entertaining  items  of  romance,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of 
their  continued  popularity.  We  last  read  them  in  volumes  the 
size  of  a  family  Bible,  and  we  are  glad  to  have  an  opportunity 
to  renew  our  acquaintance  with  them  in  a  form  so  much  more 
handy  and  elegant" 

EACH  VOLUME  WILL  BE  COMPLETE  IN  ITSELF. 

"•ondon  •  Walter  Scott,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster  Row. 


Crown  8vo,  Cloih,  Price  35.  6c/. 

CAROLS  FROM 

THE  COAL-FIELDS 

Bnt)  otbec  Songs  atiD  JSallaDs, 

By  JOSEPH   SKIPSEY. 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS, 

In  healthy,  homely  sentiment ;  and  often,  too,  in  lyrical 
quality,  his  lyrics  remind  us  of  Robert  Burns.  .  .  .  They 
go  straight  from  heart  to  heart."— Scotsman. 

"  He  has  humour,  pathos,  imagination,  and  a  kind  of  un- 
affected veracity.  .  .  .  Like  the  minstrel  of  Odysseus  in  Homer, 
Mr.  Skipsey  might  probably  say,  "Self-taught  am  I,  and  the 
God  puts  all  manner  of  lays  into  my  heart,"  whence  they 
spring  again  in  ringing  measures,  worth  many  volumes  of  culti- 
vated and  decorative  verse."— Daily  News. 

"Bright  with  many  a  tiash  of  genuine  poetry."— Glasjow 
Herald. 

Of  the  song,  "Lo,  the  day  begins  to  rise,"  The  Academy  says, 
"  Shakespere  need  not  have  been  ashamed  if  he  had  written 
this  song." 

"He  writes  to  music,  the  inner  music  of  the  sympathies,  now 
touched  with  pathos,  now  with  passion,  and  now  with  froUc  and 
fancy,  and  none  the  worse  because  of  hints  here  and  there  of  his 
native  Northumbrian  hurr."— Yorkshire  Post. 

"  The  whole  book  deserves  to  be  read,  and  much  of  it  deserves 
to  ba  loved.  Mr.  Skipsey  can  find  music  for  every  mood, 
whether  he  is  dealing  with  the  real  experiences  of  the  pitman, 
or  with  the  imaginative  experiences  of  the  poet,  and  his  verse 
has  a  rich  vitality  about  it.  .  .  .  He  has  an  intellectual  as  well 
as  a  metrical  affinity  with  Blake,  and  possesses  something  of 
Blake's  marvellous  power  of  making  simple  things  seem  strange 
to  us,  and  strange  things  seem  simple."— Pa W  Mall  Gazette. 


London:  Walter  Scott,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster  Eu. 


100th     THOUSAND. 

Crown  Svo,  440  Pages,  Price   One  Shilling. 


THE    WORLD 

OF    CANT. 


'■^ Daily  Telegraph." — "Decidedly  a  book  with  a  purpose." 

'^  Scotsman." — "A  vigorous,  clever,  and  almost  ferocious 
exposure,  in  the  form  of  a  story,  of  the  numerous  shams 
and  injustices/' 

^^ Newcastle  Weekly  Chronicle." — "Trenchant  in  sarcasm, 
warm  in  commendation  of  high  purpose.  ...  A  somewhat 
remarkable  hook." 

"  London  Figaro." — '*  It  cannot  be  said  that  the  author 
is  partial ;  clergy  and  Nonconformist  divines,  Liberals  and 
Conservatives,  lawyers  and  tradesmen,  all  come  under  his 
lash.  .  .  .  The  sketches  are  worth  reading.  Some  of  the 
characters  are  portrayed  with  considerable  skill." 

"  May  the  Lord  deliver  us  from  all  Cant :  may  the  Lord, 
whatever  else  He  do  or  forbear,  teach  us  to  look  facts 
honestly  in  the  face,  and  to  beware  (with  a  kind  of  shudder) 
of  smearing  them  over  with  our  despicable  and  damnable 
palaver  into  irrecognisability,  and  so  falsifying  the  Lord's 
own  Gospels  to  His  unhappy  blockheads  of  Children,  all 
staggering  down  to  Gehenna  and  the  everlasting  Swine's- 
trough,  for  want  of  Gospels. 

"  0  Heaven  !  it  is  the  most  accursed  sin  of  man  ;  and 
done  everywhere  at  present,  on  the  streets  and  high  places  at 
noonday  !  VerUy,  seriously  I  say  and  pray  as  my  chief 
orison.  May  the  Lord  deliver  us  from  it." — Letter  from 
Carlyle  to  Emerson. 

London :  Walter  Scott,  24  Warwick  Lane,  Paternoster  Ro-«r 


NOW  READY, 

g     408  Pages,  Square  8vo,  Blue  Line  Border, 
Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  Price  3s.  6d. 


^ 


XTbe  X^ric  of 
H  1Dopele88  Xove  | 


BY 

A.   STEPHEN    WILSON, 

Author  of  "A    Creed  of   To-morrozu,'' 

^^  Songs  and  Foe7ns"  etc. 

London :   Walter   Scott,  24  Warwick  Lane. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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